


Things to do in New York When You're Dead

by x_art



Series: The Ribbon [3]
Category: Person of Interest (TV), The X-Files
Genre: Crossover, M/M, X-files episode The Truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-25 07:52:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 38,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16657177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_art/pseuds/x_art
Summary: In the past it had been a common exercise, the almost-ritualistic examination of his splintered soul. Most times, the job du jour had interrupted the process; sometimes the evaluation had reached the inevitable conclusion, the acknowledgement that he was better off alone because who could ever love him if they truly knew him?





	Things to do in New York When You're Dead

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the sequel to The City of the Dead. It references an unpublished X-files story that I'll be posting within a couple weeks. I think you could read this without reading the other first, but you might want to wait. In regards to the first story, The City of the Dead, I did make some changes it so you might want to re-read that one. This story was only edited by yours truly.

 

 

May

 

Harold got to his feet. His new companion looked up but Harold murmured, “Soon,” and then continued on his solitary way to the room down the long hall.

The day had long turned to night, a sedate progression that he’d tracked by the reflections of the sun and then moon on the grimy windows. Odd. In the weeks prior, the hours had dragged on or fled by. There had been no rhyme or reason to the discrepancy and very little confluence between the two. It had probably been a by-product of stress, his inability to maintain focus with any kind of consistency.

It was, he supposed, nothing new. During the long years while he built the thing that would become his penultimate creation, he had lost whole days, whole _months_. Deep in his artificial world where strings of code were king, he would only surface when his stomach ached or his head grew light. Then, forced by nature, he’d get something to eat from the refrigerator that Nathan always kept stocked and wander over to the windows. He’d eat on the window’s broad ledge, his mind’s eye blind to everything but this problem in the code or that issue on how to build a particular piece of hardware that hadn’t yet been invented. Those were the days before Nathan had insisted on regular breaks because Harold was, as Nathan had put it, _‘…turning into a real computer nerd—will you get some exercise, already?’_

So much had changed since then. So many additions to his life, so many subtractions. The biggest of which was out like a light on the sofa and Harold paused in the doorway to examine the still figure. He was careful not to get too close, not to make any unnecessary noise but all was fine—his presence elicited no reaction. Thirteen hours and then some; it had to be a record.

Satisfied, Harold smiled softly, then turned around and went back the way he’d come.

 

***

April

 

John woke to the sound of a faint beeping. He reached to turn off the alarm before he remembered: No alarm, no clock, because both used unnecessary electricity. But still, _beeping_ , and he rolled over. Leila was standing by the bed, one hand clutching the comforter for balance, the other holding Harold’s cell phone.

“Did Daddy give you that?” John murmured as he leaned over and gently took the phone out of Leila’s surprisingly strong grasp.

“He did not,” Harold said, coming into the bedroom. “She was supposed to be in her playpen.”

John scooped Leila up and sat back to rest against the headboard. “I think she’s getting a little old for the playpen, Finch.” Harold was wearing an apron that had once been striped pink; now it was filthy from grease. Even though it couldn’t be past nine, Harold had been up on the roof again tinkering with their borrowed satellite dish.

“She has to stay safe, John.”

“I never said she didn’t.”

Harold put his hands on his hips. “What do you suggest? Tie her to the furniture like a dog?”

John raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a bad idea. I can rig up a harness.”

“I hope you’re kidding.”

John gave him a smirk and a wink.

Lips pursed, Harold took off the apron, then came over and picked Leila up. “When you’re ready, Theresa is making eggs.”

“I told you I’d take care of breakfast today. I was going to make pancakes.”

“We’ve had pancakes for the last three breakfasts,” Harold answered. “Just because Leila likes them doesn’t mean we need to indulge her. Besides, you were up until eleven last night.”

John shrugged. It was nothing out of the ordinary, a late night dodging the infected as he helped the healthy. Weird to think it had only been weeks since their lives had changed so drastically; it felt like much longer. He scratched his jaw and said, “Speaking of, how late did you stay up?”

“Until one.”

“Any progress?”

“Minimal. The new satellite is non-functional but I was able to contact a gentleman in the East Village via the ham radio before I lost the signal. They seem to be having less issues.”

John clasped an arm around his knee. He hadn’t expected Elias’s satellite to pick up anything beyond the island, but still… “And these issues are?”

“Overrun hospitals, police precincts that have no police, little water, scarce food because the grocery stores were looted and are therefore charging exorbitant prices for what little they have left, general panic. Curiously, though, they don’t seem to have a problem with the infected.” Harold shifted Leila to his other shoulder. “That, of course, hasn’t stopped crime from escalating. Apparently there’s a small war going on down there that the authorities are unwilling or unable to control.”

Harold had that tone in his voice, the one that said he was freaking out but unwilling to show it. “I could make a trip down there tomorrow or the next day.”

“To what end?”

John raised an eyebrow. “To stop the small war, of course.”

“As much as I hate saying this, I think you better stay here. If things are going to go the way they seem to be going, what’s the point? Even you will eventually run out of bullets, John.”

John rubbed his chin along the back of his wrist. Harold was looking off to the side. _‘I would be lost without you,’_ Harold had said only a few days ago. Those words, Harold’s bleak intonation as if he’d been talking about the weather, had revealed more than if he’d ranted and raved. John hadn’t really needed the explanation—he knew Harold was terrified, he knew Harold was getting close to the edge. John had seen it before with fellow operatives that should have never been in the field in the first place. Eventually they broke, causing the very mayhem they’d been assigned to contain.

What Harold needed was the library and his routine to be restored. Or at very least, a lot of electricity and a communication system that reached beyond a five-block radius. And, since those things were temporarily out of John’s reach, what Harold was going to get was distraction.

John stood up. “Then I’ll stay here. It’s not like I don’t have enough to do.” He took off his t-shirt and stretched. “Elizabeth and Zoe and Trask want me to show them some new moves. I was thinking of setting up a workout room in one of the suites.”

“That’s a good idea, Mr. Reese,” Harold said a little absently.

Not missing the way Harold’s gaze had flickered and lowered to take a quick detour, John let his hand drop to his chest. “I could use a break. Maybe we can get Theresa or Darren to watch Leila for a few hours today.”

Harold swallowed. “I might be busy.”

“I might, too, but an afternoon spent in bed won’t kill us, Finch.”

Harold cleared his throat. “I’ll think about it.”

John stroked his sternum and then belly. “You do that.”

“I—” Harold backed to the door and hit the jamb; Leila squealed. “The pancakes are probably burning.”

Harold cheeks and neck were flushed; mission achieved. “I thought it was eggs.”

Harold’s expression cleared of dazed lust and he turned, calling out over his shoulder, “It is. We’re eating in ten minutes. Please dress appropriately.”

John grinned at Leila and then went for his shower, already picturing the afternoon’s _what_ and _where_ and _how_.

***

“And then Darren said he’d show me out to play the trumpet,” Theresa said.

John took a plate from Theresa and put it in the sink. “That’s a good idea.”

“With my flute and Mr. Garcia’s piano and Darren’s trumpet, we might be able have a concert.”

Over Theresa’s head, John met Harold’s gaze. Still at the table to help Leila with her dinner, Harold’s eyes were wide as if imagining the worst kind of horror. John choked back a laugh and answered blandly, “I used to play the clarinet.”

Harold coughed.

“Did you?” Theresa’s eyes narrowed. “Did you really?”

“Yes. Too bad we don’t have one.”

“Yeah,” Theresa said, frowning. And then her eyes lightened. “Maybe Mr. Trask knows where we can get one.”

“Maybe he does.”

Theresa gave John the last plate. “I’ll ask him!” she called out as she ran from the apartment.

Harold waited until the sound of Theresa’s footsteps had faded, then said, “That was cruel.”

“Why?” John said, running the water over the dishes.

Leila shoved a slice of cooked carrot into her mouth. Watching intently, hand raised as if ready to come to her rescue, Harold said, “Because you never played the clarinet.”

“No.” He filled the sink up about half full. Water hadn’t been a problem but Harold’s news wasn’t good. From now on, they’d be more careful. “But I wanted to.” He turned off the water. “There was a girl in my class that played the clarinet. She was motivation enough.”

“Hm,” Harold said.

“I know that tone.” Leila was done with her meal. John went over and picked her up. She gurgled and spit out a bit of carrot. Prepared, John wiped her mouth with a napkin, making her laugh again. “No, we never got hot and heavy. She was dating a fellow musician.”

Harold’s suspicion faded. “What was her name?”

“Carla.” Carla Ramirez. She’d had long blond hair and wore braces that hadn’t detracted from her beauty. “She played the flute as well as the clarinet.”

“She sounds versatile.”

John smiled. Harold so very much wanted to ask about the details but Harold was Harold… “I wouldn’t know.” He leaned over to give Harold a kiss.

“You’re in a good mood.”

John shrugged. “I had a good day.” Three hours spent in bed with the doors locked and only occasional forays into the kitchen. It had been relaxing, something they had very much needed. After the second time, mind loose, body looser, the tight lines around Harold’s mouth had almost faded. “You did, too.”

Harold sat back. And then he smiled up at John, a sweet but slightly lascivious smile. “I did, indeed. Thank you.”

John brushed his thumb across Harold’s chin. “I’m going to put her down. Feel like wasting a little electricity on date night?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“I found a DVD player in 212. And a copy of Casablanca.”

Harold’s eyes had lit up but he cautioned, “We shouldn’t, I suppose.”

“Two hours, Finch.” Leila had dropped her head against John’s shoulder, her breath shallow but heavy. “The generators can manage. Besides, I have a line on some supplies.”

“Oh?” Harold said. “When did this happen?”

“While I was out and about. I met up with a big fellow by the name of Mini. He said he might be able to hook us up with some batteries and fuel for the generators.”

“For a ridiculously large sum of money, I suppose.”

John was about to answer when a phone rang. A phone somewhere in the apartment. Harold gasped and got to his feet; Leila jerked awake and began to cry.

“What the—” Harold said. “Where’s it coming from?”

“I don’t know.” John was already looking, drawn by the shrill sound that led them down the hall and into the little-used third bedroom. The phone was on the dresser under a pile of sheets; just as Harold picked it up, it stopped ringing.

Leila’s cries withered to a whine as they stood there in shocked silence.

“It’s okay,” John murmured to Leila, stroking her hair absently. They’d only been stranded for three weeks—something as mundane as a ringing phone shouldn’t have been so startling. “You said the landlines weren’t working.”

“They’re not.” Harold sat the phone in the cradle and picked it up again. “Nothing.”

“Is it the Machine?”

“I don’t know.” Harold turned. “We had that power spike and then the phone in the kitchen rang a few days ago. I assumed it was a fluke, a kind of galvanic reaction of the phone lines.”

“And now?”

Harold touched the phone. “And now, maybe not.”

***

Over the next two days, John stayed close to the building, in case the phones began working; they did not, so he went out on Sunday with Trask, Elizabeth and Mr. Garcia to meet with Mini and his crew. The batteries that Mini showed them were mostly designed for light residential use, but a few had possibilities, once Harold worked on them, of course. The fuel was a non-starter—Harold had juiced up the generators but they were old and needed propane.

Negotiations didn’t go smoothly. Mini wanted weapons and ammo. John offered cash. Finally, when Mini’s guys started to get restless, John threw in two satellite dishes he didn’t need because Harold couldn’t connect them to any orbiting satellite. Not that he told Mini that—the big guy looked like he wouldn’t take well to disappointment.

John gave Mini five thousand dollars for three batteries and another thousand for forty-three cases of water. While Trask and the others carted the goods back to the building, John followed Mini and his gang down 7th. He perched on the planter outside the Sheraton in case Mini got any ideas about doubling back to see where John and crew lived. Mini didn’t, and John returned to find Harold happily dividing up the water among the building’s residents.

“It won’t go far, of course,” Harold said as the Nelsons left, each loaded down with bottles. “But it gives us some breathing room.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” John murmured. Theresa and Darren were in the living room with Leila; there was no one else about. Still, he didn’t want to broadcast the coming conversation.

Harold cocked his head. “You mean the need to conserve?” He began to put the bottles in one of the cupboards.

“I think it’s wise to start planning for the long term.”

“So, showers only once a week and no unnecessary waste.”

John gave Harold a half smile. “We should bottle and refrigerate as much as we can and leave off showers all together. Bathing in the sink will use a lot less water. As to these…” He picked up a bottle of water and tipped it. “We should store these out of sight to use as a last resort.”

“You don’t mean lock them up, do you?”

John leaned against the counter. “I do. We can put them with the ammunition in the back bedroom.”

Harold frowned. “We can trust our neighbors, Mr. Reese.”

“No one is trustworthy when they’re thirsty, Finch.”

Harold was silent for a long time. And then he muttered, “You’re right of course.”

“But?”

“But bathing from a sink is so messy and inefficient.”

John wanted to laugh. “If you start to smell, Harold, I won’t mention it.”

Harold glared and then scooped up some of the bottles. “Very funny, Mr. Reese.”

***

They spent the evening in the living room watching Casablanca. Theresa asked Darren to stay. John and Harold set on the sofa with Leila between them; Theresa and Darren lay on the floor. John would’ve thought a seventy-year old movie wouldn’t interest the kids, but after the first ten minutes, they didn’t make a peep.

When the credits rolled and the screen turned dark, Darren scooted forward to turn the player off. “That was tight,” he said. “They just walked off into the sunset.”

Towards the end when Ilsa was saying goodbye to Rick, Harold had surreptitiously laced his fingers with John’s. Now, he pulled free. “It’s one of film’s most classic endings.”

Harold was about to turn on the lamp; with a tug, John stopped him and then nodded towards Theresa. She was still lying on the floor but scrubbing her eyes, her head turned away from them all.

Harold breathed a soft, “Oh,” and dropped his arm.

“Do you think that dude got together with that girl?” Darren asked.

“What girl and what dude?” John asked, mostly to give Theresa time to recover.

Darren sat up and turned around. “The _old_ dude,” he said, throwing his hand up as if he couldn’t quite believe that John was so stupid. “The guy that left his girl behind. _That_ dude.”

“I never thought about it,” John said in all truthfulness but also because it was kind of fun teasing Darren. “Who knows?”

Sighing heavily, Darren got to his feet and said to Theresa, “C’mon. Let’s see if your laptop is recharged.” He left without waiting for an answer.

Harold took that as his cue to turn the light on.

Theresa got up. Her face was flushed and her eyes were damp. “Thanks for the movie,” she said. “It was really good.”

“It’s one of my favorites,” Harold answered.

Theresa hesitated, then glanced down.

John wasn’t sitting in Harold’s lap, but as the movie had progressed, he’d moved close enough to rub Harold’s thigh. It helped with the pain, Harold had told him in the beginning. Now, feeling the weight of Theresa’s oblique curiosity and embarrassment, John debated moving his hand, not wanting to hurt her but not wanting to let a child guide his actions.

Harold answered for him—he took John’s hand again. “Maybe I can find some other DVDs. I think you’d enjoy _Notorious_. It’s very suspenseful and very romantic.”

Whatever hiccup had caused Theresa’s discomfort passed. She smiled and nodded. “Thanks. Can I bring my aunt?”

“Of course. You don’t need to ask, you know.”

“Okay.” Theresa took off, almost running out of the apartment.

Harold didn’t move; neither did John.

Finally, Harold sighed and said, “You know, in the beginning, I waited for her to ask about us but after a while, I just assumed she knew.”

“She does, Harold. She’s just going through a lot right now.” John rubbed the back of Harold’s hand with his thumb, feeling the delicate bones, the fine skin. “Have you noticed she hasn’t asked about Zoe in a few days?”

Harold cocked his head. “No,” he said slowly. “I hadn’t. What do you think it means?”

“That her crush is fading. That she’s growing up.”

“Why does that make me so very sad?” Harold asked softly.

John raised Harold’s hand to his lips. “Because, Harold, underneath all that tweed and silk and pithy snark, you are the most romantic man I know.” He kissed the back of Harold’s hand and then, carefully so as not to wake Leila, he leaned over and kissed Harold’s lips. “You want everyone to be happy, which means I’m a very lucky man.”

“Mr. Reese.”

John grinned. “C’mon. Let’s get Leila in her crib and call it an early night.”

***

They put Leila down and retreated to the bedroom. Harold wanted to read; John wanted to have sex. They compromised in the best way possible and John fell asleep an hour later, circumspectly draped over Harold with a smile on his lips and Harold’s hand cupping his head.

It was therefore a little ironic, he thought later, that just when he was starting to get the hang of his new life, his new life took a header.

***

“Harold!”

“I heard!”

John was already on his feet, dazed because it was still dark outside and the noise had been a shock. He pulled on his sweat pants and then grabbed a t-shirt as he ran from the room. This time the phone call was coming from the room where Harold had set up shop, the room that was now bright, lit up from three active computer screens.

“Finch?”

“I’m here.” Harold limped into the room. “I—” He put on his glasses. “Oh, my.”

“Is it the Machine?” John asked, squinting against the flickering light. Two of the screens were filled with static, but the third displayed a rolling list of numbers that was interspersed by ghost images, all presented too quickly to actually comprehend. “It’s the Machine, isn’t it?”

Harold hurried to the desk. “It would seem so. It’s dialing in via VOIP.” He sat down, adding in a mutter, “But what is going on?”

“Has this ev—”

The screens flashed and John had to cover his eyes. “Harold?”

“I don’t know.”

One more flash and everything went dark. Everything but the central screen. A prompt appeared up in the upper left hand corner. It pulsed, getting brighter each time as if gathering strength and then it disappeared. In the center of the screen in small green type, pixels assembled, forming the numerals 5237—

“That’s a social security number,” John breathed.

Harold was writing the number down. “It does seem to be.”

“Have you ever gotten—”

John was interrupted once more, this time by the right-hand screen. It too swam to life as the pixels formed a photo of a man. The image was in grainy black and white, and most of it was missing. John could make out the eyes, a firm jaw and a shock of what seemed to be short, black hair. Lines of data appeared under the image, but not enough pixels to form actual words. “Is that our number?”

“I don’t know,” Harold muttered. “I just took a screen capture of both.”

As if Harold’s words were a cue, both screens went dark.

“Well,” Harold said, sitting back. “That was lucky.”

John’s optic nerves were overloaded—bright circular halos floated here and there. He blinked and they reappeared. “It was.”

“Can you get the light?”

John turned on the overhead light and Harold booted up the computer.

“If your next question is how could any of this happen, I don’t know,” Harold murmured as he tapped a few keys. “I’ve been shutting this system down during the night to save energy.” He turned a stiff neck to look up at John. “It was plugged in but off. Somehow the Machine turned the power on _and_ sent us this message.”

“That must have been difficult.”

Harold frowned. “What do you mean?”

John pointed to the CPU. “Whatever it did to get us the information, it wasn’t easy.”

Harold nodded slowly. “You’re right; it almost acted as if it were dying and trying to speak for the last time.”

The lights reflected off Harold’s glasses and but John didn’t have to see his eyes to know what emotion he was feeling. He touched Harold’s shoulder. “The Machine is fine, Finch. It just took a lot of effort to talk to you, that’s all.”

Harold’s smile was crooked as he turned back to the computer. “Thank you, Mr. Reese. Now…” He began typing, speaking softly to the computer, “What is going on with you?” With a few keystrokes, Harold opened both screen captures and then tapped the monitor. “This might be our number but this…” He leaned close. “It appears to be fragments of an old airline ticket from back in the nineties. Most of it is pure code, but some is not.”

John had bent over Harold’s chair. “‘Alexander Kr-something, paid in cash, flying to Aqmola, Kazakhstan on November twenty-sixth,’” he read. “No year, but in ‘97, Aqmola was renamed ‘Astana.’”

“So our man was traveling to a former republic of the Soviet Union. That’s interesting.”

John gripped Harold’s chair. “What’s interesting is that the Machine was so eager to get us this number that it managed to give us actual data. I didn’t know it could do that.”

“Neither did I. It shouldn’t be able to.”

“Which means?”

“That it _is_ still working, it _is_ still watching out for us.”

John straightened up and they both stared at the screen. “So, I guess the only thing we can do now is figure out who Alexander K R is. How do you propose to do that?”

Once more, Harold looked up at John, only this time no reflection hid his gaze. “How do you think?”

***

They argued while Harold gathered his equipment.

“Finch.”

Harold stuffed a laptop into the backpack. “We need information and the library holds that information.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know there will be records we can access,” Harold said in that rapid-fire tone that meant he was getting agitated. “Whether those records have any useful information is unknown until I actually _look_ at them. Our only other alternative is to knock on every door in New York and ask to speak to Alexander K R. Do you really think that will be more productive? Or safer?”

“You don’t even know if the generator will work.”

“It will. There was fuel when I left that day. We’ll have at least eight hours.”

“Finch—”

“John,” Harold paused and turned around. “I have to do this. For some reason, the Machine thought it important enough to find a way to break its digital chains to give me this information. It had no way of perceiving if my systems have been compromised or if I was even alive. In a way, it risked its own life by risking exposure. I can do no less.”

Stalemate and standoff, John’s only recourse was to give in. Harold was going to go and the thought of him walking the zombie-infested streets alone and vulnerable… “All right,” John said. “We’re going, but we’re gonna do this right. We’ll need to be on the road by nine so you might as well get some more sleep.” He got his go-bag from the closet and then went to the dresser. “And we’re gonna need Carter and Fusco.”

“They can’t know the location of the library.”

“Either they go or we don’t.” He got out a pair of socks, a sweater, and the Walther PPK he kept in the top drawer.

“I suppose I can always move our base of operations after this is over.” Harold watched as John stripped off his sweat pants, and then said, “What are you doing?”

John smiled a smile he didn’t feel and tucked the gun in his pocket. “If we’re going to go out in the wild, we’ll need some protection; I’m off to make a deal.”

***

Like the negotiations with Mini, John’s deal didn’t go off as planned. He woke the secondary party up by sneaking into their facility. They were unwilling to part with their merchandise and John had to break a few noses and a lot of bones before he was done. But he prevailed and left the gang’s stronghold with a grin—and his prize—in tow.

***

Predictably, Harold was less than enthusiastic.

“It’s a dog,” Harold stated.

Crouched by the dog, John agreed, “It is. A Belgian Malinois to be exact.”

“Where did you find him? Under a bridge?”

“Hardly.” John scratched under the dog’s collar and the dog whined and tried to lick his chin. “I came across him a few weeks ago. He was chained outside a warehouse used by a group of White Nationalists. They didn’t appreciate him, so I liberated him.”

“John.”

John looked up. “If you and I are going to be gone, possibly for days, I need to make sure everyone here is safe. He…” John stroked the dog’s ears. “…will help do that.”

Harold crossed his arms over his chest. “We can’t afford another mouth or did you _liberate_ some kibble, too?”

John grinned. “The bags are down in the courtyard; I’ll bring them up later.”

“John,” Harold sighed again.

John gave the dog one last scratch and then stood up. “This is how it’s going to be, Harold. I won’t let you go out there without me and I won’t leave here without knowing that Leila and Theresa and Darren and everyone else are safe. I won’t.”

A small staring contest ensued; the dog in turn glanced between them both.

Finally, Harold’s shoulders dropped. “Very well, but I’m not walking it.”

He gathered the dog’s leash. “I’m going to introduce him to Trask and Theresa—they’ll make sure he’s okay.”

As he was leaving, Harold called out, “What’s his name?”

“The gang called him Butcher, but I think we can do better.”

“Such as?”

“I’ll let you know.”

***

John got word to Carter via the two-way, then spent the rest of the night cleaning his weapons and packing his gear. At first light, he and Harold knocked on Elizabeth’s door and told her what was going on. John left out the part about the computers—he didn’t want to get Elizabeth’s hopes up.

Theresa wandered into the kitchen while Harold was wrapping up the Leila instructions, such as they were. When Elizabeth told her what was going on, Theresa’s face grew dark. She started to make a fuss; Harold calmed her down by saying, _‘In case we don’t come back, you and your aunt are our contingency. We’re relying on you.’_ Theresa’s eyes grew wide, much as Harold’s did when he was afraid, but she nodded when Harold added, _‘Can you be there when Leila wakes up?’_

Twenty minutes later, John and Harold kissed a sleeping Leila goodbye, then slipped out of the building.

The morning was cold. Travelling down 7th, John imagined they were out for a stroll like they used to do. If it weren’t for the lack of life, and his own ramped-up vigilance, it would be almost pleasant.

“Odd,” Harold murmured, bumping John’s arm as they crossed West 48th.

“What’s odd?”

“It’s been weeks since I was this far from the hotel.” Harold looked up at John. “You know, since we…”

Harold didn’t have to finish or prompt, really, because John would never forget the forty-eight hours after they’d discovered that something had gone horribly wrong with the world. First it had been the Machine, delivering hundreds upon hundreds of numbers. There were far too many to remember, Harold had said when John had returned to the library with Leila. Thinking it was a system malfunction, Harold was diagnosing the problem when sirens began to wail. Soon after, the television broadcasts ceased.

At Harold’s insistence, John had retrieved Grace. He’d convinced her that he wasn’t a kidnapper and then drove her to Franktown, a tiny speck in New Jersey with the highest law enforcement-to-citizen ratio in the region. He’d left Grace with a reassuring smile, a bag of cash and the advice to lay low.

When he’d returned, the city was in crisis. The streets were clogged with cars and accidents. People were fleeing on foot. Unable to do anything else, John had left the car in the Lincoln Tunnel and started walking. At first he’d tried to break up the looting and fighting but gave up after the third instance, deciding it a lost cause because there was simply too much panic. Besides, Harold and Leila would always come first and he needed to get back to them.

John was calling Harold to make sure he was okay when the line went dead. He called again and got a busy signal so he hung up and tried again. This time he got a recorded message saying the circuits were overloaded and to try his call later. The third time was the worst because there was simply nothing. No wifi signal, no dial tone. In a numb state, John marched to the library.

He found the building empty of everything but books and dust. There was a note on the desk where Harold’s laptop usually rested: _‘Have taken Leila to safe house on w. 60th. Meet us there.’_ Scribbled below was an unfamiliar address. Growling, because Harold should have just waited, because he thought he knew all of Harold’s safe houses, John gathered up as many weapons as he could stuff in his duffle bag and then had set out.

The sun had fallen behind the buildings and it had started to snow. John walked through twilight made eerie by the cacophony of car alarms and the sudden lack of people. He passed wreck after wreck but could see no police or emergency responders. It was as if New Yorkers had gone crazy, all at the same time, and then disappeared. Uneasy and worried, he’d turned the corner near a trashed Subway Sandwich shop when he got his first good look as to why everyone was panicking.

A group of people had gathered in a fragmented ring, shouting and swearing at their cornered prey. John elbowed his way through to find a single man backed up against a dumpster. The man was wearing a suit that had once been nice. His arm was clearly broken and his nose was smashed in, but his skin…

John had seen desquamation while in the Middle East but this was different. The man’s skin had bubbled in areas, peeled away in others. He didn’t seem to be in pain—he stood there swaying and blinking as if confused. When he tried to move, the mob shouted and screamed and the man cowered back.

Unsure what was going on but knowing it couldn’t be good, John handled it the only way he could. He got out his gun and put the man out of his misery. With the shot echoing along the buildings, the mob had frozen in various positions of shocked silence. Gun still raised, John had backed away, saying, _‘Go to your homes and lock the doors. If you’re smart, you won’t touch that man.’_

He never found out if any of them were smart or dumb; he left, heading north at a jog to arrive at Harold’s safe house twenty minutes later. There he came across another problem—the entrance to the townhouse was blocked by a small group of men trying to break in. John had paused across the street and was assessing the situation when he got what was to be his last phone call:

_‘Mr. Reese?’_

_‘Harold. Where are you?’_

_‘At Ernie’s building. We’re safe. Come—’_

The call ended.

John had turned around and heading west towards the park. A trio of punks tried to rob him near the statue of Daniel Webster. John didn’t waste any time—he punched one in the temple and the other in the throat; the third shouted and ran off. When he arrived at Trask’s building, he was out of breath and sweating even though the temperature had dropped again. The lobby was another scene of bedlam; the doorman was surrounded by shouting people, the manager was hiding in his office, and Harold was nowhere to be seen.

Swallowing his dread, John was striding towards the back stairway to find Ernie Trask when he glanced to the left.

Harold and Leila were in the building’s café, having tea. Leila was in a highchair and Harold was clutching a teacup with both hands. When he saw John, he blinked and then gave John a crooked smile.

Feeling a wash of cool relief and then a wave of hot anger, John had just strode into the cafe, kissed Leila and—ignoring Harold’s agitated flow of words—had pulled Harold to his feet and escorted him behind a tall potted plant. And then he pushed Harold up against the wall and kissed him until his lips hurt, until the knot of fear began to dissolve.

When John had let Harold go, Harold had swayed and apologized for acting so rashly. John had pushed Harold’s glasses back in place and said, _‘Something’s wrong. We might need to plan for the long run.’_

Twenty-five days and a hell of a long run later he could now say calmly, “I know. I remember.”

“So much has happened since then.”

“I know.” Two blocks down a cat ran across the street. A few seconds later it was followed by two men. Poor dumb saps.

“Should we help them? Or the cat?”

“No,” John said shortly. “They’re too far away.” He didn’t want to tell Harold that the two men were heading towards an area infested with the sick. There was nothing to do for men because he wasn’t going to leave Harold’s side. “And the cat will be fine.”

“Very well.”

“So about Leila’s education…” John said.

“You want to talk about that _now_?”

He shrugged under the heavy weight of his backpack. “We’ve got another five blocks until we meet up with Carter. Indulge me.”

“What do you want to discuss?”

John really didn’t want to talk about Leila’s future—they were crossing into what Carter had nicknamed The Funnel. It was a three-block length of no-man’s land that separated four rival gangs and a nest of the infected. It seemed peaceful enough and during the day it was passable, but John had witnessed a handful of murders and a rape in The Funnel. He hadn’t been able to do anything about the former or the latter and it still ate at him. Unfortunately, the streets on either side were worse, therefore The Funnel was a necessary danger. “What are the good public schools within a six-block radius of your place?”

“Emphasis on ‘public’”?

“You know my views on private schools.”

“I do, indeed.” Harold hitched up his backpack. “To answer your question, there are several in my neighborhood. They focus on science and play-based learning.”

“Play-based learning?”

“It’s the newest trend in early childhood education.”

“Huh.”

“Yes. The theory is that children under four learn best by doing and playing, rather than more traditional methods. Once their cognitive skills develop, they can then begin a more methodical and rigorous education.”

“How do you know all this?”

“How do you think?”

John smiled at Harold’s pithy response. “If that backpack gets too heavy, let me know.”

“I told you, the weight of two water bottles and my laptop are hardly a burden.”

“It’s the weight of the body armor I’m worried about.”

Harold pressed his lips together before saying, “And who’s fault is that?”

It had been one of his conditions, that Harold wear a vest, goggles and a helmet, and John shrugged, not in the least bit sorry.

“That’s what I thought.”

They were passing in front of an empty bodega and under a flowering tree; John pushed a branch out of Harold’s way. He didn’t bother glancing inside the store to see if there was anything worth taking—it had been cleaned out weeks ago. “So you’re fine with Leila going to school in the city?”

Harold looked up at John. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“After all this…” John nodded to the people-less streets, the bloated corpse in the red Subaru that he hoped Harold hadn’t seen. “I would’ve thought you would want to move to the country. Or at least New Jersey.”

Harold gestured sharply. “New Jersey? Is it any better out there? Are _they_ any safer? No,” he sighed. “We’ll stay here for now, but that doesn’t mean we won’t fine-tune our emergency response plan.”

“Okay.”

“And maybe invest in a few more safe houses.”

“All right.”

“Is that all you can say?” Harold turned to look up at John again.

“It’s enough for now,” John said with a smile. While they were walking, he’d moved to Harold’s left, casually though, so Harold wouldn’t be alarmed. The four-story on the other side of the block was controlled by one of Mini’s men. The gang was up there now, staring down from the third-floor windows. John wasn’t too worried; he was fairly certain they’d run out of bullets the week before. Still, he gave them a sidelong glance, telling them silently, _‘Stay put and you won’t get hurt.’_ One of the men pointed his fingers at John like he was shooting a gun, a gesture made popular by movies. John grinned but moved closer to Harold, just in case.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” John murmured. Down the street, a flash of blue caught his attention; it was Carter, striding towards them like she meant business. Fusco and another detective were with her, trying to keep up. Carter was carrying a rifle and was wearing protective gear. She had her eye on Mini’s building; when her team reached the street corner, she raised the rifle to peer through the scope.

“There are Detectives Carter and Fusco,” Harold said. “I’m not familiar with the other man.”

“His name is Davis. He’s from the 63rd in Brooklyn.”

“You mean…”

John nodded, not needing to look over to see that Harold had raised an eyebrow. The 63rd was one of the first areas to be compromised. When John had gone to meet Elias, he’d had to pass near the precinct’s western boundary. He’d been in a hurry, moving fast, but from what he had seen, the entire area had been hit hard by infection. Last week, Davis had arrived on Carter’s precinct doorstep, telling a story of mass murders and zombies.

Davis was White, about Harold’s age, and had a whole lot of tough-guy attitude that didn’t match his soft belly and soft hands. He also liked to talk. Whenever he yammered on about his exploits at the 63rd, John was always left wondering who was kidding whom. And who had actually done the murdering at the 63rd—the gangs or the police? He had mentioned his reservations to Carter; by her minimal response, she’d had the same thoughts. John had put his worries on hold because there was nothing else he could do. If the officers at the 63rd had gone nuts it would no doubt turn out to be a common story—the police were as terrorized as the rest of the city.

Still, there was something about Davis…

“Everything okay?” Carter called out as soon as she was within range.

“Everything is fine, Detective,” Harold called back. He nodded to Fusco. “Lieutenant. You’re looking well.”

Fusco grinned. “Thanks. I lost five pounds this week.”

John tipped his head. “That’s because the donut shop is closed.”

“Be that as it may,” Harold said before Fusco could get worked up. “Thank you for meeting us. I realize this is out of your way.”

“It’s five blocks,” John said. “And there’s no traffic.”

It was a stupid joke but Fusco’s smile brightened. “Yeah and ain’t that a kick in the pants.” He shook his head. “The world is going to hell and the streets have never been quieter or safer. Relatively speaking, of course.”

“Relatively speaking,” John agreed. These days, Carter’s frown was perpetual, but Fusco was Fusco and somehow that eased the tension that was _John’s_ constant companion. “Harold Wren, this is Detective Davis.” He added with a gesture. “Detective Davis, this is Harold.”

“You’ll pardon me if I don’t shake your hand,” Harold said to Davis with a bow of his head.

Davis smirked. “Like I mind that. Who knows what germs you got on you.”

It was a rude response, completely out of place; Harold adjusted his glasses in that way that said he was surprised. John exchanged a quick glance with Carter but only said, “Let’s go; daylight’s wasting.”

They set off again. By silent agreement, John took point, Fusco, Carter and Davis brought up the rear, leaving Harold in the middle. It warmed John’s chest, the way Carter and Fusco joined ranks to protect Harold. It was one of the things he thought about late at night when he couldn’t sleep—what would happen to Harold and Leila if he made a wrong move or got sick. It was one of the things that helped him go back to sleep, remembering that at least there was Joss, at least there was Lionel. They were very his own contingency plan.

“So, Detective Fusco,” Harold said. “How is your son?”

“He’s okay,” Fusco said with a shrug. “He’s going a little stir crazy. I keep telling him he’ll miss being bored when he’s in college, but does he listen to me? Anyway, him and Carter’s son are building some gizmo that’ll filter the water for the entire building. They’re working on it now. Hersh is helping them. Thanks for hooking us up with him, by the way. The guy is terrifying but he knows how to get things done.”

“I told you, Lionel,” John said, “That wasn’t my doing.” It actually _had_ been his doing because he’d wanted to keep his contingency plan safe. After running into Hersh near the Stock Exchange—and after a fist fight that had left them both bloody, bruised and almost smiling—he’d made his proposal. Hersh had made a counter proposal, one John had no trouble accepting. He no trouble agreeing to surrender to Hersh once the world had righted itself because it was never gonna happen. By the resigned look on Hersh’s face when they’d nodded on it, he’d realized the same thing. But he agreed to John’s terms, nonetheless.

“Yeah, well, thanks, anyway. It was a good idea bringing him in.”

“I trust you haven’t mentioned anything about the details of our operation, Detective,” Harold murmured.

John looked over his shoulder, hoping Davis hadn’t heard. Davis was some distance away, walking down the middle of the street. Show boat.

Fusco snorted. “I don’t _know_ the details. And no,” he added before Harold could point out that Lionel knew quite a bit, “I didn’t tell him where I was going and I made sure he didn’t follow. He’s an okay guy.”

“He’s a tiger in sheep’s clothing,” Harold answered. “It’s best to keep him at arm’s length while he’s among the flock.”

“Wait,” Fusco sputtered. “Are you calling me a _sheep?”_

John turned the corner and stopped. “We’re here.”

Harold stopped at John’s side. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s still standing.”

“And hopefully still empty,” John replied, wanting to echo Harold’s happy sigh. Arriving at the library always felt like coming home and today was no different.

“So this is where you hang your hat,” Fusco asked, leaning back to examine the building. “No offense, but I expected better.”

John heard Carter’s soft snort; he wanted to smile. Harold had six safe houses, three safe _buildings,_ and five businesses and those were just the ones he knew about. Talk about a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

“Something funny, Mr. Reese?” Harold asked.

“I’ll tell you later.”

***

Leaving Harold outside with the others, John swept the building, bottom to top. Everything was as he’d left it and all the tell-tales he’d set were in place.

He tapped the two-way and said, “It’s clear, Carter. Send him up.”

***

“It’s no use,” Harold muttered, head still bent over the phone book.

Sitting in the window seat with a directory of New York, John didn’t answer.

“I knew it would be a long shot because these are somewhat outdated, but I’d hoped…” Harold trailed off and then slammed the book shut. He glanced at John as if embarrassed by his show of anger.

John closed his own book. Five minutes into their search, he’d realized how impossible the task was. There were over a thousand Alexander KRs in the region and over one hundred in New York, alone. Harold examined his database but it, of course, only delivered what had been put into it. They had found nothing so they’d turned to the information stored on paper. They’d been at it for four hours; it would be dark soon. “What about the archives in the basement?”

Harold sighed and removed his glasses. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Other than the books on the first floor, I catalogued as much as I could when I first set up shop. The only thing left unscanned is a room full of water-damaged children’s books.”

“What about the fourth floor? Anything up there?”

“No.”

“What about the—?”

“John!” Harold interrupted in a voice loud enough to echo. “It’s pointless.” He touched his keyboard, adding a frustrated, “If only…”

John waited a beat then said, “Finch?”

Harold nodded. “I know. We need to leave soon.” He rolled his chair back and gave John a wry smile. “Thank you for not telling me I told you so.”

John put his book down and went over to Harold. He crouched. “I would never say that, Harold. You had to try. I know that.”

Harold tended to keep his demonstrations of affection to himself—it was just who he was. But now he cupped John’s cheek. “John, I—”

John never found out what Harold was going to say because once more, the Machine startled them. With a beep and a purr, the laptop woke from its temporary sleep and a line of code ran across the screen. John scrambled to his feet and Harold leaned closer to the screen as the line repeated: _NYT~1081.9-;_

“What are you doing?” Harold murmured to the Machine. “And _how_ are you doing it?”

“Is it code?” NYT~1081.9-;. It didn’t look like any kind of computer code to John. Like before, the pixels were only partially lit up, leaving gaps here and there. Still, the mix of numbers and letters seemed familiar.

“No,” Harold said slowly. “It doesn’t seem to be. It seems to be—” He broke off and shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“I do,” John said, suddenly remembering where he’d seen that particular arrangements of numerals and letters before, and maybe he was just tired because he should have recognized it immediately. “Wait here.”

He hurried off, down the long flights of steps to the room behind what used to be the library’s front desk. The room was a disaster area, a place where the staff had dumped boxes and stacks of books, probably after they’d been notified of the library’s closure. John had set up one of his tell-tales in the room, a thin line of thread about as high as his knee. He’d figured that if anyone were going to use the room as a bivouac, they’d choose the space behind the boxes. The thread was still there and so was the old fashioned card catalog.

The cabinet ran the length of the entire wall and was roughly six feet high. Along the top edge of the catalog were labels, some starting with _WSJ_ and _DN_ , but most with _NYT._ He opened a drawer at random and found not a row of paper cards but a neat line of thin plastic sheets. Carefully, he drew the first one out and held it up to the light. Bingo.

***

“Microfiche,” Harold murmured as he slid the film under the glass. “I knew the catalogs were there but I never…” He turned on the microfiche reader; it hummed as the screen came alive. “…would have imagined these would be of any use. They were transferred years ago.”

The library had only the single reader. John had carried it to Harold’s worktable and—shoving aside a monitor and two printers while Harold made disapproving noises—he had set it up. Now, he pulled a chair next to Harold’s. “See? Digital isn’t everything.”

Harold adjusted the focus, saying absently, “I never said it was. All right…” He leaned closer. “Presuming the Machine is telling us to look at an article dated October eighth of ‘94 in the _New York Times._ We should be able to find this fairl—”

“It’s right there,” John said, pointing to a below-the-fold, single-paragraph article on the front page. “‘Incident at train station rattles passengers.’”

“How do you know that’s—” Harold leaned closer. “Oh.”

John nodded. The photo was grainy, taken from an odd angle, but that clearly was Alexander Kr. Dressed in a pale-colored suit, he was showing his ID to a metro cop. In the background were the usual lookyloos. John read: “‘ _This evening’s commute in the Bronx was interrupted when an FBI agent attempted to apprehend a felon during rush hour. According to the authorities, Agent Fox Mulder drew his gun only to find the felon was not on the train. Agent Mulder and Alexander Krycek were questioned by the police but not charged. The New York office of the FBI refused to comment, saying the investigation was ongoing.’_ ” John sat back. “Alexander Krycek. At least we have his name.”

Harold had already moved to the other side of the table and was busy at his keyboard. “And his associate, Fox Mulder _._ ”

“‘Fox.’ That’s a new one,” John murmured as he examined the photo. There was a man standing on the side of Alexander Krycek. A little taller, he was mostly hidden, but John thought he could see a badge in the man’s hand. “Did you find anything?”

“In regards to our number, no. In regards to Agent Mulder, however…”

“Really?” John wheeled around the table. On the screen was a jpeg of a flyer for a conference. It was the bureaucratic kind, created by someone with too much time using too many fonts. The event, a seminar on profiling, had been hosted by Agents Reginald Purdue and Fox William Mulder of the Violent Crimes Unit in DC. The conference had been held at the Crown Plaza in May of 1992. There were no other details, not even a phone number. “How on earth did you get this?” John murmured.

“When I was building the Machine, I let it have free rein with data gathered from the city. It obtained a pastiche of information.”

“In other words you don’t know.”

Harold turned stiffly and glared at John and then swiveled back around. “I imagine the document was either provided by the sponsors or brought to the conference by one of the attendees, and then somehow ended up being copied or mimeographed.”

John grinned. “In other words, you don’t know.”

Harold rolled his eyes and began typing. “Sometimes, Mr. Reese…”

“Sometimes I make you crazy?”

“No,” Harold said, frowning as he typed another line of code. “Sometimes I want to kiss you.”

John flushed. Harold was flirting. Harold was flirting and why was that so very sexy? “Harold.”

“We’re working.” Harold gave John a sideways glance. “Later.”

John stood up. “See what you can dig up on Alexander Krycek while I check in with Carter.” He touched the back of Harold’s neck; Harold shivered. “Later.”

***

Carter and Fusco were fine. Tucked between a cement pillar and the scaffolding, they were arguing about pizza.

“There is no way Ray’s on 7th is better than Ray’s on 3rd.” Fusco scoffed. “No way.”

“And how would you know?” Carter shot back. “You just said you never ate at Ray’s on 7th.”

“I don’t have to eat there to know it’s not good. Some things just are, Carter.”

Carter hmphed, so much like Finch at his most crabby that John had to smile. “You’re both wrong,” he said, making them jump. “Ray’s on 9th beats them all, hands down.”

Lionel tugged at his vest. “Where’ve you been? It’s after four.”

“I know what time it is, Lionel,” John said as he scanned the area. “Where’s Davis?”

“Call of nature,” Lionel said. “Why?” he added when John looked around again, “you don’t trust him?”

“I don’t trust anyone other than Finch. I thought you knew that.”

While Fusco sputtered, John asked Carter, “Where did he go?”

She pointed to the east. “It’s just been a few minutes. What do you think he’s gonna do?”

“That’s the problem; I don’t know because I don’t know _him_.” John shook his head. “He’s got HR and Elias written all over him.”

“Wait,” Fusco said, finally catching on. “Davis is working for Elias?”

John turned and said, keeping the irritation from his voice, “I don’t know, Lionel, but he showed up at an interesting time with a story that was lacking in details. It’s why I asked you to keep tabs on him.”

Fusco shifted from foot to foot. “Yeah, but you didn’t mean follow him to the toilet, right?”

John let his silence speak for him.

Fusco began to sputter again and Carter pushed away from the pillar. “I’ll find him.”

“Keep in our line of sight. If he’s not around the corner, come back.”

Carter nodded. “Will do.”

Carter hadn’t gone ten steps when Harold joined them. He’d put on the vest but was carrying the helmet. “Why is Detective Fusco so upset and where is Detective Carter off to?” he said as he peered around John.

“Lionel is upset because I questioned his professional abilities,” John answered. “And Carter is going to find our lost lamb.”

“Detective Davis?” Harold asked, ignoring Fusco’s sour look.

“Hm, mm,” John said. Carter was at the corner now. Davis was nowhere to be seen if her reaction was any guide. “He went off to find a makeshift latrine and Fusco didn’t follow him. Did you get what you wanted?”

“Not really but I’m afraid my resources are exhausted. And it’s past time we were on our way. I’m sorry I delayed us.”

John turned and looked down at Harold. “It’s okay. We’ll make it home by curfew.”

Harold raised an eyebrow. “Then shouldn’t we be on our way?”

“As soon as Carter gets back.” She was coming, hurrying up the street with a grim look on her face.

John looked at Fusco; Fusco grimaced and shifted from foot to foot again.

“Don’t tell me,” John said as soon as Carter got within reach. “You couldn’t see him.”

“No,” Carter said tightly, giving Fusco a scathing glance. “I couldn’t.”

“We’re going.”

Harold, of course, objected. “Even given your suspicions in regards to Detective Davis, we can’t leave him behind.”

“I don’t want to, but he knew the drill: stay within eyesight, send off a shot if you’re compromised, be on the road by four-thirty.”

“John—”

“Harold, it’s a two-hour walk,” John said, not adding, _‘at your pace’_ because Harold already knew. “We don’t have a choice.”

“What if we go through the park? That will save time.”

“The park is too dangerous.” It was a bit of an understatement; he’d never given Harold the details because he hadn’t wanted to worry him.

“Yes, I realize that, but—”

John turned on Harold. “Harold, when I said I wouldn’t compromise your safety, you told me you understood.” He bared his teeth. “Well, this is me not compromising your safety. We are leaving now, even if I have to duct tape your feet together and strap you on Fusco’s back.”

There was a long, tense silence as Harold glared at John and John glared right back. And then Harold visibly deflated. He nodded and said. “Very well.”

“Good.” John hitched up his rifle. “And put that helmet on.”

***

They set out, switching to the other side of Madison to give Davis a clearer line of sight. If he was indeed coming back, if he hadn’t been murdered or infected.

They were six blocks along and John was eyeing three men standing in a doorway on the other side of the street when a loud shout echoed up the avenue. It was Davis, running for all he was worth.

“You couldn’t wait?” Davis called out as he rounded two crashed cars. He slowed down when he reached them, leaning over, his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“Next time pay attention to the instructions,” John said. “And go for a jog now and then.”

Davis straightened up. He tried to control his expression but John caught the narrowed, mean gaze. He’d been right about Davis but now wasn’t the time to take care of the problem. Harold would never stand for him shooting Davis without cause because instinct based on experience wasn’t cause in Harold’s book. “Did anyone touch you?”

“You mean did a zombie attack me?” Davis asked with a curl of his lips. “No, I’m fine.”

“Then let’s go.” John gestured with his rifle. “We have to hurry.”

They set off again, this time with Davis in front. Carter gave John a speaking glance and then flanked right so they would both have a clear shot if Davis turned on them.

***

Davis didn’t turn on them but time did and as they hurried up Madison, the shadows lengthened and the air grew chilly.

Harold struggled to keep up the pace but they’d only gone halfway when he started to flag. Without a word, John reached over and tugged on Harold’s backpack. Harold opened his mouth to object but then didn’t, letting John take the backpack off with a relieved sigh.

Mapping out a new route, John slung the backpack over his shoulder. If they turned west sooner rather than later, they could hide out in the Sheraton or the Hilton, the benefit being they would be well away from Columbus Circle. Both hotels were overrun by refugees but the underground storage areas were safe resting spots. Except for the rats, of course.

He kept his plan to himself, though, urging them on at a quicker pace and they were almost to 57th when John slowed down and then stopped. “Hold up,” he announced to his band of four. “We’re not gonna make it.” He unzipped Harold’s backpack, got out a bottle of water, and unscrewed the cap. “Just a swallow,” he said to Harold as he handed over the bottle.

“What about the rest of us?” Davis said, eyeing the water.

Carter glared at Davis but John tone was mild, “You were supposed to bring your own.”

Davis shook his rifle. “I was loaded down with all this crap. How’m I supposed to carry water, too.”

John shifted sideways, edging in front of Harold in case Davis’s anger got the best of him. “That’s not my problem.”

Davis turned his head, muttering something under his breath, something that sounded a lot like, _‘Fucking queers.’_

Harold stiffened. John touched his arm, hoping Harold got the message that they didn’t have time for this and he’d take care of Davis later. Harold got the message but Fusco didn’t.

With a growl, Fusco grabbed Davis’s shoulder and then shoved him. “What did you say, you piece of trash?”

“Fusco!” Carter said the same time Harold murmured, “Detective…”

John ignored both, his attention caught by a noise that he couldn’t identify. It was familiar, the buzz, but so out of context… “Quiet,” he ordered, one hand up, his head tipped to the sky. “Listen.”

Like statues, they all froze, even Davis.

“I don’t—” Fusco started to say. “Wait a minute. Is that a helicopter?”

“It is,” John said, tracking the grey spec that was flying north on a parallel trajectory. He began to walk quickly, almost running as he tried to keep the helicopter in sight. “It’s an AH-64 Apache Longbow.”

“Mr. Reese?”

They were at 59th. The Apache was almost even with them. It slowed down, the rotor’s hum taking on a new pitch and John’s heart jerked. “They’re going to land in the park.”

“Mr. Reese!”

John stopped and turned. Halfway down the block, Harold had paused near a bus stop. His face was bright red and he was gasping, holding onto a bench for support. John jogged back.

“I can’t keep up,” Harold pulled his goggles off. “I’m sorry.”

John swallowed. He had to leave Harold. He couldn’t leave Harold.

“It’s okay, John,” Carter said, running back to join them. “I’ll stay with him. Davis will, too. We’ll keep him safe.”

There was no time and no other choice. “Joss, you gotta promise me—”

Carter stopped him with a light hand on his arm. “I will.” She squeezed. “I will.”

Once she’d requested the same thing, asking him to guard the thing most precious to her. Remembering that day, John cracked a bare smile and murmured, “Thanks,” and then turned to Harold. Harold’s face was still flushed but he was staring calmly up at John. To anyone else, Harold probably seemed perfectly fine. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Harold nodded.

John wanted to kiss or at least embrace Harold. He had no idea what would happen in the next hours. He could die; Harold could die. If this were a movie, they’d both make it through and walk off into the sunset like Rick and Louis did in Casablanca. But they weren’t in a movie; they were in enemy territory, out in the open and vulnerable. And Harold was a private person. So he just gave Harold’s backpack to Carter and muttered, “Try to keep up, Lionel,” and began to run.

***

They went hard, racing along 59th to enter the park on 5th.

John circled the Sherman statue, dodged an empty stroller and headed for the footpath. This early in the spring, the trees were just leafing out, but even so, the bare branches and pines made it hard to see the helicopter that circled once and then twice.

“They’re over Sheep Meadow,” Fusco shouted. “We can take East Drive!”

John angled right and leapt over a chain link barrier. “The meadow is too small,” he called out. “They’ll have to repel and hope they don’t land in the trees!” The north meadow would have been a slightly better option, the only drawback was that it was infested with the sick and the dead.

Fusco followed John, grunting as he made it over the barrier. “Who is it?”

“It’s gotta be the military.” The helicopter circled the meadow for the third time.

“Maybe it’s the governor!”

They were coming up to one of the bridges that crossed the 65th St Transverse, close enough to hear the rhythmic cadence utter of the chopper’s blades.

“What are they doing now?”

John slowed down. The Apache dropped again and then stilled, hovering in the air. A figure dressed all in black lowered a rope. “They’re gonna fast-rope it.”

“‘Fast-rope?’” Fusco asked, breath coming so ragged his voice was almost a stutter. “What the heck is that?”

“It’s a way of getting to the ground quickly,” John answered as the first man began to descend. Another figure took the first man’s place, steadying the rope and peering down. Fast-roping _was_ a quick way to get from point A to point B, but it was a chancy way to deploy, especially as the men were all wearing backpacks and carrying rifles, both of which would throw off their center of balance. “It’s dangerous—the vortex created by the rotors could send them flying.”

“And?”

John did some silent calculations as a third man descended the rope—he and Fusco were about a hundred meters from the meadow; the Apache was near to the west end. There was no way their voices would carry over the noise of the rotors, even if they were close enough. He had no flares and it wasn’t dark enough to signal by flashlight. “And, that helicopter is meant to carry two or three people, not five. It means they’re either incredibly stupid or they’re desperate but skilled. I’m thinking they’re Delta or SEALS or Special Forces.” He could try shooting into the air but soldiers didn’t respond well to being shot at.

“And?”

Four men were on the ground now. As they readied their weapons, one of them signaled. The rope was pulled back up and the helicopter took off. Three of the men formed a protective ring around the fourth and they began walking towards the other side of the park. John followed. “And, we’re going to intercept them and introduce ourselves.” He changed directions, taking a path that headed northwest.

“Hey,” Fusco wheezed and grabbed John’s sleeve, then jerked his thumb. A straggling line of the infected was stumbling through the trees towards the meadow.

“I see them,” John said. “Cross your fingers they don’t see us.”

“Jeez,” Fusco complained. And then moved to the other side of John.

***

At a quick march, John was able to keep the newcomers in sight until they reached Central Park West. Through the bare trees and bushes, he saw when the men picked up speed, going from a steady clip to a trot. As one, they crossed the street at a sharp angle and then turned west onto 63rd.

“They’re in a hurry,” Fusco muttered behind John.

“Which is why we need to catch them.” Before Fusco could ask why he added, “They’re trained and they’re heading somewhere. If they don’t know what’s going on, they might know someone who does.”

If Fusco answered, John didn’t hear it, his attention drawn down the street. He stopped in his tracks and then shoved Fusco behind a burgled van. He peered out.

Central Park West was no different from the other streets—it was clogged with trash and abandoned vehicles. There were only a few bodies nearby—the city had done a fairly good job of clearing away most of the corpses before all communications had ceased. But it wasn’t a good place to stroll about and here was why: coming up from Columbus Circle was a small army of thugs.

“Who are they?” Fusco asked. “Elias’s guys? The Russians?”

“No.” John absently touched his ear and then remembered the earpiece wasn’t there. No Harold, no instant resources. But he didn’t need Harold to recognize the behemoth of a man that was leading the group. “Elias promised me he’d stay in Brooklyn. It’s Mini and his goons. That’s him in front.”

“What’re we gonna do?”

It was pointless to hope the gang hadn’t seen the Apache—with a sharp gesture, Mini directed some of his men over to 61st while the rest of them headed straight up Broadway. “Intercept, engage, protect.”

“And that’s it?”

“No,” he answered, his plan formed as the last of Mini’s men disappeared from view. “Mini will try to box them in. We’re gonna get there first.” He clapped Fusco’s shoulder. “Come on. I know a short cut.”

Without waiting, John crossed the street and turned on 64th. He led Fusco down the block and then into an antique shop. The owner had removed the good stuff weeks ago but there were still a few large items and John had to edge between two tall cabinets to make it to the back entrance. The door let to a narrow alley which led to a covered path between two apartment buildings which led to an alley on 63rd.

“You sure know your way around,” Fusco muttered as they pounded up the street. “You break into every building?”

“Not every.” Neither the soldiers nor Mini were in sight. “But close enough.” Two weeks of daylight and midnight runs around the city, setting up safe houses and contingency plans in case the worst happened.

“I hope you were careful.”

“You’re worried about fingerprints, Lionel? That’s sweet of you.”

“I’m worried about being recorded when I’m with you,” Lionel retorted. “Some of those cameras have to be working.”

They were almost to Broadway; John angled left, leading Fusco towards the bank on the corner. “It’ll be okay,” he said, “I never go anywhere without gloves and Harold will take care of the cameras when this is all over.” He found cover behind the bank’s pillars and then glanced inside. Behind the metal barrier, a couple guards were watching. He wasn’t surprised—the banks had been the first to shut down and prepare. Giving the guards a salute, John crept up to a FedEx truck. He took a look. The soldiers weren’t in sight but Mini’s guys were. Like dogs that had lost the scent, they were a block and a half away, scattered and ranging about.

“Where to now?”

“Now, we—”

A shout and then another interrupted John. He raised his rifle and peered through the scope.

“What is it?” Fusco breathed into John’s ear.

“Trouble,” John answered as the scene unfolded. The soldiers must have backtracked as soon as they saw Mini because they burst from a bodega and ran the opposite way towards John’s location, up the middle of the disaster area that was Broadway. Still moving in formation, the three men covered the fourth. Thanks to the rifle’s powerful scope, John thought he knew why: the fourth man’s backpack was larger and square as if it was holding a box. The men could easily stand and fire—they had available cover and a lot of weapons. That they hadn’t could mean a lot of things, but John would bet it was because whatever was in that pack was important. Which meant it was important to him, too, and he was about to step from his hiding place when the four men turned.

As one, they angled west and crossed Broadway and then angled again, this time towards an apartment building on 62nd. Without pause, they sprinted across the plaza and then into the building. Like the quarry they were, they had once more gone to ground.

John nodded with satisfaction and then checked his clip even though he didn’t have to. “You ready?”

“Ready for what?” Fusco asked.

John turned.

Fusco sighed. “Jeez…”

***

The thing was, he’d never promised Finch. He’d agreed to the no-killing rule because he didn’t need to kill to stop an opponent. And because he’d been trying to turn over a new leaf. But this was different and as John exited his shortcut from 63rd to 62nd and saw that eight of Mini’s gang were guarding the apartment’s entrance he said a silent, _‘Sorry, Harold,’_ and got out his handgun.

“Hey,” Fusco hissed as he caught up with John. “I thought Glasses said no killing?”

He attached the silencer and then stepped onto the street and calmly shot two of Mini’s guys in the back. The rest whirled around but it was too late. John strode towards the plaza, taking them all out, one by one. “They’re not dead,” he said as the last guy dropped to the ground. “They’ll live if they can get those bullets out.”

“And where are they gonna do that?” Fusco demanded. “None of the hospitals are taking new patients.”

John shrugged and then stepped over the first man he’d shot. “If you want to help them, stay here,” he murmured without looking around. “I’m going in.”

Fusco huffed but didn’t hesitate and together they crossed the plaza.

The building’s automatic doors were no longer automatic; one was hanging at an angle, the other was stuck in place. They did provide cover of a sort and John sidled up and peered through the glass.

It wasn’t an apartment building after all, it was a hotel. Flanked by malachite columns, an ugly Baroque reception desk was on the left, a lounge was on the right. Directly in front was a red-carpeted staircase that led to three-sided gallery. The setting—gold and crimson and deep green—was like a theater stage and John slipped around the door and then behind a column, unnoticed by the players.

Mini and his gang of twelve had crowded the foyer; all had weapons, most had found cover. Up on the gallery, a group of infected were teetering towards the stairs and there, caught in the middle and frozen on the staircase, were the soldiers.

Covered head-to-foot in black tactical gear including safety glasses and helmets, the men still hadn’t broken rank—three surrounded the fourth, as they had the whole time. With no choice, they were at last making a stand; they all had their weapons up, even the man in the middle. They were tired, though, John could read it in their slumped stances, in the way their rifles wavered. Trapped, exhausted soldiers carrying assault rifles but facing a greater number of weapons—it wasn’t the most precarious situation John had ever witnessed but it wasn’t good. The soldier’s protective gear would keep them safe for a time, but even the best armor couldn’t withstand that many bullets.

Mini seemed to agree because he called out, “There’s no place left to run and there’s too many of us. Just tell me how I can get that ‘chopper and I’ll let you go!”

The men on the stairs didn’t move.

The infected did, however. With a stumble here and a wobble there, they made it to the top of the stairs.

“C’mon, now,” Mini said, still in that same loud, persuasive voice. “I’m a better alternative to them.” He tipped his chin to the sick. “One touch and you’re a goner. I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”

The soldiers still didn’t react.

“Have you’re own way,” Mini said. He raised his gun.

John had only one option: he pulled a smoke grenade from his belt. He hadn’t made any sound but the fourth man, the man in middle of the group, glanced to the side, just a slight flicker of his eyes. His gaze met John’s.

So, not unnoticed, just given leeway to announce intentions.

John grinned and then put his finger to his lips. The other man’s eyes widened. Without waiting to see if he’d been understood, John pulled the thin mask up over his face and then popped the smoke grenade. He lobbed it at Mini.

The stillness splintered and then fractured.

With a collective shout, Mini’s men scattered, shooting at anything and everyone as they tried to figure out where the new threat was coming from. The infected reacted as well, now stumbling and tumbling down the stairs. The soldiers were the only ones to keep their heads. As soon as the smoke bomb had exploded, the fourth soldier shouted something and the group made for the front doors. Plowing through the smoke and then out again, they ran towards John and freedom.

As they charged the door, one of Mini’s men, a short guy with an oversized hoodie, made a running leap. With an audible, “Oof!” he took the last soldier down.

John moved, shouting over his shoulder, “Get them out, Lionel!” even as he reached down and dragged Hoodie off the soldier. He didn’t have time for a pithy one-liner—he shot Hoodie in the thigh and then took a fistful of polyester and hauled the soldier up. One hand on the soldier’s back, he ran through the door, half-turned, weapon raised.

“Hey!”

It was Fusco; he was across 62nd, hunkered down behind a huge flowerpot. “We got you!” Fusco shouted, gesturing with his rifle.

“Come on.” John let the soldier go. “This way.”

“Where are we going?”

Walking backwards, John kept his aim on the door as Mini and his men staggered out of the building.

“I asked you a question.”

Without taking his eyes off Mini, John answered with one of his own: “What’s the first thing you do when you’ve completed a mission in enemy territory and are under attack?”

The man hesitated, then muttered, “If you can, retreat to a secure location to regroup and reassess.”

“There’s your answer.”

***

Mini was a tenacious, wily opponent but his arsenal and manpower had just taken a serious hit. John counted on that as he led his group north through buildings and alleys until they were about three blocks from Trask’s building.

“Where are we?” Fusco asked.

John unlatched the wrought iron gate and pushed it open—the gate was old and covered with winter-stripped foliage. “Somewhere we can rest for a few minutes.” ‘ _Somewhere I can get answers without compromising Harold and Leila and the rest.’_ “Just take the path; there’s a garden around back.”

The soldiers followed John’s direction but Fusco paused and looked all around. “What is this place?”

John shoved the gate closed; it squealed and complained. “You need to go to church more often, Lionel.”

“This is a church?”

“It was.” He shrugged and then tipped his head back and forth. As soon as they were some distance from Mini, John had pushed the mask down but it itched his neck in places he couldn’t scratch. “The building became unsafe and the city ordered it closed until the parish could afford the repairs.”

“You really _do_ get around, don’t you. So…” Fusco’s voice dropped to a mumble. “Who do you think they are?”

“I don’t know,” John replied in a stage whisper. “Let’s go find out.”

***

Three of the soldiers were sitting on cement benches. They had taken their headgear off and had gotten their water bottles out. When John and Fusco edged around the broken limb of an apple tree, they all turned to gaze at John with similar expressions. The fourth man had removed his backpack. He was near the shrine at the end—a small, decaying statue of Mary—and was on a sat phone, his back turned to the group. He had taken off his helmet and goggles, too, and as he talked he began to pace, a quick agitated back and forth. Finally, he muttered something under his breath and stuffed the phone in his pocket. He turned.

Ever since John had threaded his world with Harold’s, life had thrown him one surprise after another. Some had been good surprises, some not so much. Here was one more although he probably should have expected it because the Machine was nothing if not efficient.

The photo the Machine had sent them was ten or twenty years old. Alexander Krycek’s short dark hair was going grey and his neck was a little thicker. All of which John would have expected if he’d thought about it—what _was_ a shock was Krycek’s prosthetic arm. Why on earth would any agency send a man with one arm into a situation like this? There could be only one reason and John smiled and then murmured, “Agent Krycek, I presume?”

The only warning John got was a slight widening of Krycek’s green eyes and then Krycek was striding towards him, head lowered, gun up.

“How do you know my name?” Krycek snapped.

The other soldiers had scrambled to their feet, obviously confused.

Fusco fumbled for his weapon. “Hey!”

Krycek didn’t budge. “How do you know my name?” he said again, this time in a low growl.

_“Hey!”_ Fusco said again, this time shouting. “You shoot him, I shoot you!”

Krycek stopped. He clenched his jaw but didn’t glance at Fusco.

Other than raising his hands, John hadn’t moved. He was confident in his own skills and had the advantage of two arms. But there was something about the way Krycek had reacted, his speed and steady aim… “So you’re not just an FBI agent,” he murmured. “Fast-roping with only one hand is pretty impressive. What are you? Not a grunt, I think, so CIA? Black ops?”

White teeth bared like a rabid dog, Krycek snarled and didn’t answer.

“We’re not here to hurt you.” Slowly, John lowered his hands. Off to the side, Fusco was creeping around the sundial. Krycek saw him at the same time and his grip on his gun tightened. “Lionel,” John said, “why don’t you put your weapon down. We’re all friends here.”

Fusco, as stubborn as always, barked, “Him first.”

John sighed. “We really are here to help you,” he said to Krycek, “but Detective Fusco here is a bit of a hothead. He likes to shoot first and ask questions weeks later.”

That got through; with a subtle shift, Krycek’s fingers relaxed and his stance changed. “If you’re not here to hurt us,” he said, “why did you follow us and how do you know who I am?”

“First—” John nodded to the gun. After a moment, Krycek nodded and lowered his weapon. Lowered, but not holstered. Keeping that in mind, John said, “You arrived in an AH-64 Apache Longbow. There hasn’t been a flyover in weeks; it got our attention. As to how I know your name…” He smiled, aiming for honest and transparent. “I traveled to New York in October of ‘94. I was getting off the train when I almost got creamed by a crowd running from an FBI agent. He was shouting and waving a weapon. When I got home, I read up about the incident.”

“You were there? In New York?” Krycek said with a slow blink. “That was a long time ago. And a big coincidence”

“It is,” John agreed serenely. “I have a very good memory and your partner’s name stayed with me because it was so very unusual.” He examined the other men; they were shorter than Krycek, which meant… “How is Agent Mulder, by the way?”

Krycek clenched his jaw and once again didn’t answer.

One of the men, older and military with the crew cut to match, came to stand by to Krycek’s side. “Only another ‘grunt’…” One hand on his weapon, the soldier used modified air quotes. “…would know the model of our vehicle.”

“I was in the army which is why I know that in a situation like this, you either send in all the troops or you do a recon.” John scanned the newcomers. The other two were also military—they had the haircuts and the same requisite hardness. “And since there’s only four of you, I’m thinking recon.”

Krycek started to answer but Fusco, still off to the side, had enough. With a huff, he stomped over to John’s side and demanded, “And what’s with that, anyway? We’re crawling with zombies and our supplies are going, going, gone! We’re dying here.” He huffed again. “It’s been almost a month!”

Somehow Fusco’s outburst disarmed the men, literally. Krycek put his weapon away and Crew-cut dropped his hand from his rifle.

Krycek got a water bottle out of his thigh pocket. “Supplies and men were sent. They never got passed the city limits.”

“Gangs,” John murmured reflectively.

“That’s what we assumed,” Krycek confirmed. “I don’t have the details but truckloads of water and rations tagged with RFID chips were sent in. The drivers were never heard from again and the tags, well…” He shrugged and took a drink of water. “Everything went crazy after that. New York was the first to be hit but definitely not the last.”

“So what is it? What’s making everyone sick?” Fusco asked.

Krycek went back to the statue and picked up his pack. “This has been nice,” he said as he pulled it on. “Thanks for saving our lives, but we’ve got someplace to be.” He gestured and the other men gathered up their gear.

“And where is that exactly that exactly?” John asked in his most, _‘I’m really harmless’_ manner. “Maybe we can help you out.”

Once more, Krycek hesitated, giving John a long, hard look.

John recognized the examination for what it was, a yes or no kind of situation. Trust or don’t trust and he didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t want to get the intel out of Krycek by force; the man was just doing his job. _‘C’mon,’_ he said silently. _‘I don’t want to waste a bullet and I don’t want to hurt you. Let’s do this the easy way because I really need to know what’s in that pack.’_

Finally, Krycek sighed. “I’m with the CDC. We need to get to a building on 58th.” He touched the strap of his backpack. “We’ve got a cure for what’s happening out there.”

Stunned, John exchanged a quick look with Fusco and then asked, “Where on 58th?”

“To Avenix. It’s a pharmaceutical company.”

“I know it. It’s on the corner of 10th.”

“That’s the one.”

John glanced up. The watery blue sky was grey with the coming sunset. “You’ll never make it now,” he said. “The area is controlled by the fellow you met an hour ago. He’ll be angry that you got away.” The words were a reminder, a prod of the thing he’d been avoiding thinking about and he tapped his ear once more before he remembered: no earwig, no Harold. “And it’s almost sundown. The sick are more active in the dark.”

“That can’t matter. It’s important.”

“Important enough to risk your life and your cure?”

“Yes.” A beat and then Krycek frowned. “What do you suggest?”

“Tell them you’re gonna be delayed.” John nodded to Krycek’s satellite phone. “And then come with us. We’re bivouacked about four blocks north of here. Have a good night’s sleep and then set out at first light. It’ll be safer.”

“The sat phone ran out of juice. I can’t call them.” Krycek looked over his shoulder and communed silently with his team. Then he shrugged and said, “All right. But you have to know that I’ll do anything to get these samples to my people.” His expression turned blank and opaque. “And I mean anything.”

John smiled again. “A man after my own heart.”

Krycek didn’t smile back.

***

John let the others precede him back to the street. When they were out of earshot, he got out the two-way and called Carter. The only answer was a rush of static. He tried again, murmuring, “Carter. Come in.” Still no reply. It was okay, though. The two-way’s range was limited by the tall buildings and the battery. Harold was fine. There was no reason to worry.

***

They took Amsterdam and as they hustled along, Krycek answered questions.

John had only one—was the military going to intervene—but Fusco had a plethora.

“And it’s just radiation?” Fusco asked. “This Ribbon thing is just radiation like in the movies when giant ants attack?”

“There have been no reports of infected animals, Detective,” Krycek answered. “And if there were, I doubt they’d increase in size.”

“You know what I mean.”

“The theory is that the radiation activated a dormant virus that resides in humans. It’s why some got sick and some didn’t. It’s why our food sources weren’t effected.”

“Jesus.” Fusco examined his hand, turning it this way and that. “Seriously? It’s in us right now?”

“Relax,” John said, not bothering to hide a smile. “If you were going to get sick, you would have.”

“It _is_ highly contagious,” Krycek said. “Just because you weren’t triggered, doesn’t mean you can’t contract the illness from someone in the second or third stage of the illness.”

Fusco rolled his eyes. “Yeah, thanks, we figured that one on our own.” After a moment, he shot John a chagrined glance as if realizing he shouldn’t piss off the men that were saving his life. “And the rest of the country’s got it, too? What about Canada and Mexico?”

“Mexico sent aid but Canada has their own problems. Other parts of the world have been affected, we think. We’re still having trouble establishing and maintaining communications.”

“Because everyone got on their phone at the same time and fried the circuits?” Fusco asked.

“That, plus the Ribbon affected the radio waves,” Krycek answered. “Even if the data centers were able to handle the traffic, nothing would get through.”

John had already passed Harold’s theories on to Carter and Fusco, that it was likely that parts of the internet were working just as parts of the country had cell service. Carter had understood; Fusco hadn’t. The one thing John had told them that they’d both understood was that when this was all over, there’d be meetings and conferences to discuss how to handle the situation should it be repeated, but that was for the future—now they just had to survive. “So, farms and livestock weren’t affected.” he asked as he walked around a stripped motorcycle. “How do they know for sure?”

“Because we did test after test,” Krycek said. “There is no sign of abnormal radiation in any soil or water samples.” He peered around John. “And before you ask, Lieutenant, yes, radiation occurs naturally pretty much everywhere.”

Lionel hmphed, but John just said, “Good.” When Harold had mentioned the possibility of irradiated food, he’d pretended a calm he hadn’t felt. In all the hubbub, he hadn’t even thought about the sources of food and water… “How long will it take to deliver the vaccine to hospitals and pharmacies?”

“The situation is fluid so months, probably,” came Krycek’s simple answer. “Maybe even years.”

Fusco’s jaw dropped. “You gotta be kidding me?”

Even though he had known what the answer had to be, John’s stomach dropped. Months, maybe even years. But he couldn’t do anything about it so it was a worry for another time. They were turning a familiar corner that would bring them to a familiar building. “We can talk about it later. We’re here.”

***

John keyed in the code for the alarm and then led his guests through the three barricades. They’d just made it passed the last when he heard a shouted, “Reese! Zoe’s here! She brought someone!”

He sighed as Theresa and the dog came running across the courtyard. He’d asked Fusco not to use his last name in front of strangers; he should have asked Theresa to do the same. Oh well. He was fond of the name but it wasn’t really his; he could always get Harold to make him a new one. Speaking of… “Is Harold upstairs?”

Theresa slowed to a stop, her wide-eyed gaze taking in their guests with avid curiosity. “No. He’s with you.”

John quashed the instant panic and got out the two-way again. “We had to separate.” A quick call gave him the same results as before and he stood there, absently staring at the barrier. Carter and Harold should have returned an hour ago. The spot where he’d left them was about a mile away as the crow flies. Normally, it would be a matter of cutting through the park, a trip of thirty or forty minutes. But things weren’t normal and he wasn’t a bird. If he had a phone or computer, he could track Harold’s cell. Now he had nothing but his wits and determination.

Been there and done that so many times he’d lost count and he slipped off the backpack and knelt on one knee. He unzipped the pack and began to rummage through its contents.

“Hey.” Fusco came over; so did the dog.

If he was going into the park, he’d need to travel light—speed was more important there than firepower.

“What’re you doing?”

One smoke grenade, a concussion bomb. “What do you think?” John replied without looking up.

“I think you’re gonna do something really stupid. I think you’re gonna cross the park.”

“Stupidity is a point of view, Lionel. And before you ask, no, you can’t come; you’re staying here.” He got out two bottles of water and two granola bars; Harold might be hungry and thirsty.

“Hey.” With a wheeze, Fusco knelt, too. The dog whined with anxiety. “No way. You told me again and again, don’t go out after dark and especially don’t go into the park after dark.”

John stroked the dog’s ears and ignored Fusco, debating rifle or carbine. The latter was better in tight situations but he was running out of rounds. The former, however was lighter and tha—

Fusco grabbed John’s arm and shook it. _“Hey!”_

The dog barked; John hummed low under his breath and then turned. “What?”

Lionel actually flinched. And then his jaw firmed and he said, “I promised him. Weeks ago when the city was going to hell, he asked me and I promised that I’d never let you do something stupid and this is about the stupidest thing you’ve done.” Fusco released John’s arm.

A beat while John took stock, while he reassessed. There was only one person Fusco could be referring to and it was almost funny because he’d asked Carter the same thing, about the same time, too: _‘Joss, if something happens to me, you have to keep Harold safe. Promise me.’_ She’d promised without question.

It was a precarious thing, this relatively new balance between need and rational thought. The need to save Harold at all costs had become a compulsion, getting in the way of what used to be his MO, that of self-preservation and the drive to see a job through.

John glanced up. Theresa was standing off the side. Her arms were crossed over her chest and her expression was blank. The same as when he’d first met her, closed off to everyone and everything. And then there was Leila…

There really wasn’t a choice and he set the carbine down. He’d stay and keep them all safe and hope that Carter made it through.

“Good,” Fusco said around a sigh. “Because he’d never forgive me.”

John bent his lips in a smile he absolutely did not feel and started to get up. As if to reward him for his good sense and restraint, the proximity alarm chirped and then beeped. The gate opened.

“Harold,” Theresa sighed as two figures slipped through. She ran to Harold and gave him a hug that rocked him back on his heels.

“Theresa,” Harold said, as if he’d been out for a stroll. “What is it? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Theresa muttered. “I’m just glad you’re back.”

“We were only gone the day.” Harold touched Theresa’s shoulder and then limped over to where John was kneeling. He took off his helmet and goggles, and gazed down at the arsenal. “Going somewhere?” he asked blandly.

“Not now.” John shoved everything back in the bag and stood up. “What took you so long?” Even though the air was cool, Harold’s face was shiny with sweat.

Carter slung her rifle over her shoulder. “We had to go the long way. Mini’s gang is on the warpath.” She raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming that’s because of you.”

John shouldered the bag. “We took something they wanted. Their feelings are hurt. Where’s Davis?”

Carter jerked her thumb towards the gate. “He’s out there with Mr. Trask. One of your boarded-up windows on 79th isn’t boarded up anymore.”

Damnit. Probably just some vagrants; they’d been trying to get into the boiler room for days. “I’ll take a look later. Harold…” John stepped back and gestured to their guests. “This is Alexander Krycek. I haven’t been introduced to his friends. They’re with the CDC.”

Harold cocked his head. “The Center for Disease Control? Does that mean what I hope it means?” Before Krycek could answer, Harold gestured to the main doors. “Never mind that now, let’s get inside. Detectives, I’m assuming you’ll stay the night. Joss, you’re welcome to stay with us; Lionel, you can sleep on the sofa in the living room.” He turned stiffly to peer up at Krycek. “You’ll want proper beds. The apartment next to ours is generally kept aside for our visiting friends but you are welcome to it. I’m afraid it will be quite cold until it warms up.”

John caught Krycek’s flicker of response at the word, ‘ours,’ but all Krycek said was, “Anything is fine.”

“Good.” Harold nodded. “Good. When we get upstairs, you can wash up. I’ll find something for dinner. We’ll eat in an hour or so.”

Theresa piped up, “Me and Darren are making stew.”

“That sounds lovely.”

Harold started to leave but John stopped him with a touch. “Carter?” he said. “Can you show them the way? Theresa, take the dog.”

Both Krycek and Carter glanced between John and Harold but it was Carter who nodded and said, “Sure.” She gave Harold’s backpack to John.

It was a minute’s wait and then everyone was inside. As soon as they were alone, John said, “What’s wrong?”

“Why should anything be wrong, Mr. Reese? I’m perfectly fine.”

“You’re not,” John said. Harold was talking too fast and he was trembling—John could almost feel it. “What is it? Did anyone touch you?”

“No.” Harold drew a deep breath. “No,” he said again, his voice a little lower. “You told me how it was out there, but I’d never expected—” He shook his head and then adjusted his glasses. “We had to go by the park and I never… Those poor people.”

John rested his palm against Harold’s back. “Do you remember asking me about riots?”

“I do. You said you doubted it would come to that.”

“Do you know why I said that?”

“No.”

He slid his hand down Harold’s back. All he could feel was the outline of the vest under Harold’s jacket. “Because the ones that aren’t sick are all terrified. Most of them are too scared to step outside. They’re waiting for someone to save them.”

“So you’re saying I did something brave today and that we _are_ going to save them?”

“I am.”

Harold turned to look up at him. “I’m not a child, John. I don’t need cajoling.”

John grinned and dropped his arm. “All right.”

Harold raised an eyebrow. “I really don’t.”

“All right.”

Harold sighed but unbent enough to smile very slightly. “You’re impossible.”

“That’s what you say now.”

Harold snorted gently and then said, “Let’s go upstairs.”

***

The smell of cooked potatoes and onions greeted them when they opened the apartment door. Theresa and Darren were in the kitchen. Sitting at the counter bar was a Fusco and a stranger.

John dropped his gear on the chair while Harold said, “Hello?”

Theresa set the spatula down. “This is the guy I was telling Reese about. His name is Caleb. Him and his mom were in trouble but Zoe brought them here. They’re in the apartment around the corner.”

Caleb had stood up while Theresa explained. He was about seventeen, tall with clear blue eyes. He’d been eating a sandwich; he wiped his palm on his jeans and then shook Harold’s hand. He turned to John but didn’t reach out. “Hey,” he said, and then, on a diffident note, he added, “Theresa said I could eat something.”

“Caleb,” Harold murmured. “Of course you can. Is your mother hungry, too?”

Caleb jerked his thumb towards the door. “She’s sleeping. If that’s okay.”

“It’s fine,” Harold said. “Would you like to join us for dinner?”

Caleb glanced at Theresa and then shook his head. “I better not. I gotta get back. My mom worries when I’m not around.”

Harold nodded. “It was good to meet you.”

“Yeah,” Caleb muttered. “Same here.” He smiled briefly at Theresa and then left.

“Darren?” Harold said. “Why don’t you make a plate of sandwiches and take them to Caleb’s mother when you get a chance. I’m sure she’ll appreciate it.”

“Sure, Mr. Finch.” Darren went to the refrigerator and got out a loaf of bread and the sliced roast beef that John had liberated from the Grand Hotel’s freezer the week before.

“That looks good,” John said as he leaned over the counter and stole a slice.

Darren pushed the plate closer.

“How’s Leila?” Harold asked, giving John that, _‘Manners, Mr. Reese,’_ look.

John grinned and took another slice, just because.

“She’s with my aunt,” Theresa said. “I’ll get her as soon as the stew is done.”

“It’ll be ready in a half an hour,” Darren added.

“Do you need any help?”

“Nah, Mr. Finch,” Darren said. “We got this.”

Fusco had been uncharacteristically silent the whole time and now he stood up and said pointedly, “Can I talk to you two?” He tipped his head to the living area. “Over there?”

Harold gave John a speaking glance but just said, “Of course Detective.”

Wondering what new turn was coming, John followed Fusco to the living room. “Where’s Carter?”

“She said she wanted to wash her face. Hey…” Fusco craned his neck. John turned his head, too—there was no one else around.

“Okay,” Fusco muttered, “It might be nothing, but I’ve seen that kid before. I think he’s a dealer.”

John met Harold’s gaze. They’d had a few issues with criminal activity in the complex, mostly petty thefts. This was something else entirely, especially because of Theresa. “Are you sure?”

Fusco shrugged. “Well, not exactly, but it looks like the kid I almost busted with a low life named Lorenzo a few months back.” He glanced at Harold and then John. “What should I do?”

“I’ll take care of it,” John said.

Harold gave him a side-eye. “What are you going to do?”

“Make sure he’s not a threat. You saw the way Theresa was watching him. If he’s using drugs, he’s out.” By the look on Harold’s face, he didn’t quite agree. “I’ll look into it later. Now, I’m going to clean up. Care to join me, Harold?”

“Oh, jeez,” Fusco said with a roll of his eyes. “I’m gonna see what Carter’s up to.” He hurried out of the apartment.

“I’m exhausted and dirty and dinner is in thirty minutes,” Harold murmured as he stared after Fusco. “What on earth do you think he thinks we have time for?”

John snorted silently. “Do you really want to know?”

Harold thought about that for the briefest of seconds, then shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose I do.”

***

They didn’t have time to do anything more than wash. John made way for Harold as he scrubbed his face and chest, as John did the same.

“As soon as we have a free minute,” Harold said to John’s mirror image, “I’m going to give you a proper shave. You’re getting scruffy.”

“Considering the way the last one went, how can I possibly object?” Shaving cream everywhere and Harold in his lap. It hadn’t been the first time that Harold had surprised him but it had been one of the sexiest.

Harold pursed his lips in that way that said he was pleased. “I’ll try to make it memorable.” He gave John the hand towel. “The men from the CDC are joining us; it will be quite a crowd. I’ll need to find the table’s leaves. Are you sure it’s a good idea to spend so much time with them?”

John dried his face and then tossed the towel on the vanity. “If you’re meaning the guys from the CDC and not the leaves, no.” He tipped his head; a bruise was forming on his jaw. For the life of him, he couldn’t remember when he’d taken a hit. “But it’s a little late, now.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do. I also know it’s a little late now.”

Harold hesitated and then said, “Maybe you should say you’re sick.”

“Maybe I should have in the very beginning but I had more pressing matters to deal with.” _Like keeping you and Leila alive._ “It’ll be fine. You can offer them all exciting opportunities in new careers across the country when everything is back to normal.”

After a moment, Harold nodded shortly. And then he gave John a long-suffering sigh. “The towel doesn’t belong on the counter. And I hope you’re going to put shoes on,” he added as John picked up the towel. “This isn’t a barn.”

***

While Harold changed into something more uncomfortable, John went to get Leila. Barefoot, he padded down the hall and turned the corner just as Elizabeth was closing her door. She was juggling Leila and Leila’s stuff, plus a paperback book.

Leila saw John before Elizabeth and with a crow, she reached for him. “Daddy!” she cried out.

John grinned and jogged up to her, snatching her up to give her a kiss. “How was she?” he asked Elizabeth.

“She wore me out but that’s nothing unusual,” Elizabeth said with a smile. She smiled again in thanks when John took the diaper bag and the sack of toys. “You were right—she’s going to be a climber. She managed to get over the gate in less than thirty seconds.”

John shifted Leila to his hip. “As soon as she’s ready, I’m going to take her to a rock wall, but don’t tell Finch that.”

“My lips are sealed. Hey…” Elizabeth tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Theresa says there’s news?”

John nodded; Leila took the opportunity to grab his chin. “Are you coming for dinner?” Boundaries were something most of the residents honored and Elizabeth tended to prefer her own company at night. Harold always said it was because some people knew the value of solitude. John figured it was because she wasn’t use to children. “Theresa cooked enough for a small army.”

“Sure,” Elizabeth said with a nod. “That would be nice. I’ll be down in a few minutes. Trask found some wine in the manager’s cabinet; I think Harold will like it. Oh…” She held up the book. “I borrowed this—can you give it to Harold?”

“Will do.” John tucked the book in the diaper bag and then took Leila’s hand. He waved it. “Say thanks to Elizabeth, Leila.”

Leila said something that sounded like Elizabeth’s name and then shouted, “Pancakes!”

***

John strolled back, calculating Leila’s weight and girth. He’d only been gone the one day—how was it possible that she’d grown again? He said as much as he pushed the door open and closed with his foot: “I think she’s grown again, Harold. We need to get her some new clothes.”

“By ‘getting,’” Harold called from the dining room, “I’m assuming you mean stealing?”

John tossed Leila’s things on the backpack he’d meant to put away but hadn’t, and then went into the dining room. “It’s not stealing if we’ll eventually pay for it. I’ll go—” John stopped in the doorway. Harold was standing by the head of the long table. Krycek and his men were sitting on one side. On the other sat Theresa, Darren, Caleb and a women that was probably Caleb’s mother. “—out tomorrow,” he finished. “Hello.”

“Mrs. Lori Phipps,” Harold said, “this is John. John, our guests from the CDC are Mr. Bennet, Mr. Webb, and Mr. Cole.” Harold nodded to each man as he spoke. And then he reached for Leila, his expression changing. “Everyone, this is Leila. John…” Harold turned slightly. “We’ll need two more chairs. Miss Morgan and Detective Fusco will be joining us, too.”

“So is Elizabeth.” John removed the tray from Leila’s high chair. “Joss isn’t coming?” Harold gently set Leila in the chair and John put the tray back.

“She’s tired and said a couple hour’s sleep is better than a big meal.”

“She can have both,” John said, wondering if he should go next door and convince Carter of that fact.

“I’m sure she knows what’s best.”

Their tete-a-tete was broken up as Zoe and Fusco came in.

There was a confusion of introductions. John had to smile because Zoe took one look at Krycek and zeroed in, literally and figuratively, neatly commandeering the seat next to him without making it seem obvious. Krycek’s men weren’t bothered by it, if their dazed stares were any indication.

At John’s side, Fusco chuckled and whispered, “Looks like you’re not the prettiest one in the room anymore.”

Harold raised an eyebrow. John just rolled his eyes.

***

Harold waited until Elizabeth had arrived and everyone was seated before saying, “I realize much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, but perhaps it would be wise to keep the conversation to the mundane.” He glanced at Theresa and Darren.

There was a murmur of agreement. By her glower, Theresa wasn’t too happy about being relegated to a virtual children’s table. She nudged Darren and they got up to bring dinner in, Theresa stomping as if she’d just been told to go clean her room.

Dinner was normally a casual affair with Leila sitting between John and Harold. Tonight, Harold had saved the seat at the end of the table for John while he sat at the head. John wasn’t sure what it meant; a way of splitting up resources to gain the most intel or a formal declaration that they were a couple. Either way it was a little boring. Lori Phipps was on his left. She was a quiet woman who had the shakes though she tried to hide it. Bennet was on John’s right; he was equally quiet, but John chalked that up to exhaustion and a soldier’s natural reticence.

Hating small talk, John made small talk, chatting with Bennet about Georgia, with Lori about schools. Bennet was ex-Navy Seal having quit the service when he got sick of the politics. He’d been with the CDC as private security for five years and with Krycek’s team for two.

In the end, Lori turned out to be the most interesting; her boys had gone to Hill Early Learning Academy. It was on Harold’s list, but not John’s. He’d seen the photos—it looked a little too fancy for Leila.

“It really is a good school,” Lori said as she poked at the stew. “The programs are individualized for each child. If it weren’t for them, I wouldn’t have been able to get Caleb into BSSH. They helped me with the paperwork for the scholarships.”

John had no idea what BSSH was but money wasn’t the problem. Not that he was ever going to say that. “I just want to make sure that Leila is with normal kids,” he said as he glanced at Harold. Harold was in the middle of a conversation with Zoe, Elizabeth and Krycek.

Lori smiled, the first of the evening. “It’s not just a bunch of rich white kids, if that’s what you’re getting at. I didn’t want that for Caleb, either.” She glanced down the table towards her son. “When he was little, he was so quiet. Hill helped him come out of his shell.”

“I don’t think we’ll have that problem, but it’s good to know.”

As if making John’s point, Leila slammed her fork on the plate with a shout and then raised her arms.

“I better intervene before she gathers steam,” John murmured as he scooted his chair back and stood up, grateful for the excuse to get away for a moment, though it was nothing more than the truth—revved up on carbohydrates and protein, post-dinner Leila was a high-flyer until she conked out about twenty minutes later.

“Can you see if she needs changing?” Harold asked as John edged behind the chairs. “There’s a clean pair of pajamas in her crib.”

John lifted Leila out of the seat. “I don’t think she’s ready for sleep, Harold.”

“She needs to learn that quiet time means quiet time,” Harold replied.

It wasn’t the first time they’d had this discussion. John wasn’t used to kids but he knew enough to know that they were miniature forces of their own nature and they were going to do what they were going to do. He could never quite convince Harold of that. But, as he always reminded himself, he wasn’t used to kids so maybe he was wrong.

Zoe got up as well, saying, “I’ll help.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You will?”

Zoe smiled. “John—I thought you knew. I love babies.”

As soon as they were out of sight, Zoe dropped the pretense, her animated expression giving way to a certain grouchiness. “Don’t tell me,” John said as they went into Leila’s room. “You suddenly remembered that you _don’t_ love babies.” He put Leila down on the changing table.

Zoe leaned on the table. “I love that children bring me income. Or rather, I love their parents’ obsessive need to protect them at all costs even when they’re grown and out of the house.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“No,” Zoe said, picking up one of Leila’s toys, a blue striped ball. “I decided that it was too frustrating to be near perfection only to be denied a chance.”

Leila was dry so John began exchanging dirty day clothes for clean nightclothes. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about Alex.”

“Alex Krycek? What about him?”

Zoe tossed the ball from hand to hand. “I thought you knew.” At John’s confused expression, she clarified, “He’s gay.”

Leila had grabbed her dirty shirt and was waving it around like a flag. John took the shirt away from Leila and put it out of reach. Immediately, she grabbed the baby powder. “He told you that over beef stew and a good white?”

“No,” Zoe said with an arch smile, “but there are some things a girl knows, John. This is one of them.” Her smile died. “First you, now him.”

“There was never going to be anything serious between us. You know that.”

“Oh, I know, but a girl can dream.”

“Zoe,” John said as he gently guided Leila’s fat leg into the pajama’s leg, “if I had ever asked for more than one night, you would have run for the hills.” He started on the other leg.

“I suppose I would have. Still…” Zoe put the toy down. “You’ve changed.”

He always had trouble with this part, the snaps that connected the leg seams with the rest of the unit. “How have I changed?” he asked, not really paying attention.

“When I first met you, you were like a panther on the hunt for your next meal. Now here you are with your baby and your wine and your family. You walk the streets in broad daylight without a mask, you invite people into your lair and actually tell them your name. He’s domesticated you.”

He liked Zoe; she was useful and clever and nice to look at. But familiarity, they said, bred contempt, and he clenched his jaw in a hot flood of anger. “Zoe—”

“Is everything all right?”

John didn’t turn at the sound of Harold’s voice. He relaxed his shoulders and jaw and hands, and then snapped Leila’s last snap. She dropped the baby powder and twisted. Prepared, John caught her before she rolled off the edge. “We’re fine.”

“You don’t need to worry about John’s or my anonymity, Miss Morgan,” Harold said. “If there are any issues, I’ll take care of them once we fade back into the woodwork. Eventually, John will become an urban legend once more.”

John picked Leila up. He looked at Zoe.

Zoe hesitated, then nodded as if conceding some invisible battle. “Boys.” She left the room.

“I came to tell you,” Harold said, “that I sent the children off to Elizabeth’s to watch a movie. The rest of us are having coffee in the living room.”

“Okay.”

“Do you want to leave Leila with Theresa? She said she would.”

“No,” John murmured, filled with the sudden need for Leila because in a way, Zoe had hit on a small truth and holding Leila was his version of throwing salt over one shoulder. “She can stay with us. She won’t understand what we’re talking about and she’ll be asleep soon, anyway.”

“John.”

He turned and gave Harold a wry, crooked smile. “Zoe was wrong, Harold. You haven’t done anything to me that I wasn’t ready for.”

Harold adjusted his glasses but only said, “Very well.”

***

As soon as they got to the living room, the dog ran up to Harold just as Leila demanded, “Down,” and then pushed on John’s chest.

“Down ‘please,’” Harold corrected because John always forgot. “And can you do something about him?” he added, pushing the dog towards John. “He really does need to be trained.”

“We’ll start tomorrow.” He sat Leila down, knowing where she’d go. Among their acquaintances, Leila had favorites. If Carter were here, Leila would make a beeline to her. As the room was Carter-less, Leila smiled and headed for Fusco. Fusco was ready—he picked Leila up and she immediately grabbed his tie and began chewing on it.

“We saved you a seat,” Harold murmured, nodding to the sofa, adding in a louder voice, “Leila’s teething, Detective. Do you want me to take her?”

“Nah,” Fusco said. “She’s fine.”

Trask and Elizabeth were sitting in the chairs that normally resided in Harold’s workroom. The rest were scattered about with Krycek in the chair nearest the sofa. Unsurprisingly, Zoe was gone.

John murmured, “ _Here_ ,” to the dog and then took a seat next to Harold. Without instruction, the dog lay down at his feet. “Where’s Mrs. Phipps?”

“She’s not feeling well,” Harold said. “She needed to lie down.”

Over Leila’s head, Fusco shot John a _‘Yeah, right,’_ look but said just said, “Krycek was telling us about what’s happening to the rest of the country.”

Krycek nodded. “As much as I can. Like I said before, it’s not just New York. The Ribbon passed over various parts of the country and the radiation affected communication systems immediately. The thing is, other large cities are doing okay. Their systems are down and crime has gone up, but they don’t seem to have as many dead.”

“Maybe it’s the weather,” Fusco said.

“Maybe it’s global warming,” Trask added.

“Maybe it’s bad luck,” Bennet growled.

Harold sipped his tea. “It’s doubtful a singular source has anything to do with it. It’s more likely a combination of the external and internal, a perfect storm, to use a bad analogy.” He blinked. “Which makes your hypothesis the most accurate, Mr. Bennet.”

Bennett’s stern expression cracked and John covered his own smile with his hand. Bennet looked like a kid who’d just been patted on the head by the teacher. It was funny.

“It’s too early to tell but that’s what we’re thinking,” Krycek said. “That it was a combination of events and reactions, one feeding into the other. We won’t be sure until we can get the everything under control and assess the situation.”

Harold set his tea down. “To that end, how can we help you?”

Krycek glanced at Elizabeth and Trask. “We’re not informing civilians for strategic reasons.”

Harold didn’t miss a beat. “This civilian’s friends saved your life.”

“If I tell you, I’m taking a lot on trust.”

“As are we, Mr. Krycek,” Harold replied calmly. “We’re running out of food; soon we might be out of water. If you indeed have the cure to the affliction, our lives, quite literally, rest in your hands. We’ll do everything in our power to assist you.”

There was a long, heavy pause.

“All right, but all of this stays in this room.” Krycek waited for nods, then continued, “When the meteor passed over the country in February, it took weeks for the effects to be noticed. By the time we realized there was something wrong, it was already too late.” Krycek cracked a grin. “Not that we knew that at the time. But, we got to work; reports were starting to trickle in so we sent out recon teams. Because we had no idea the extent of the problem, the teams had no security. The team we sent to New York included two virologists, a lab tech and an assistant—they never came back.”

John glanced at Harold—Harold’s face was appropriately grim.

“By then, our area of the country got hit and we had first-hand examples of the Ribbon’s effects.”

“The walking dead?” Fusco said.

Krycek nodded. “The walking dead. Our doctors figured out the solution fairly quickly, we thought, but they ran into an issue with manufacturing and distribution because right about then, the communication infrastructure went kaput after the satellites started malfunctioning. We were cut off.” His smile was bitter. “That was a fun week.”

Bennet grimaced and Cole nodded.

“Our options were dwindling fast,” Krycek continued. “Even if we could manufacture the cure on a large scale, there was no way to ship the product.”

“Because the nation’s transportation systems were down by then,” Harold murmured.

“At least the hubs which essentially meant, yes, the transportation systems were down,” Krycek agreed. “So, we decided to go old school and send out small amounts of the vaccine to labs that could then begin manufacturing on a small scale. Our thinking is that once the core groups are inoculated and things are stabilized, we’ll get to work on the rest of the population. By then, we’re hoping, communications and transportation systems will be back to normal and we can ship the goods to the parts of the country that need it.”

“That’s a big assumption, Mr. Krycek,” Harold said.

“It is,” Krycek agreed. “But we’re stuck between a rock and a hard place, which is why we called in the troops—we’re giving samples to military teams out of L.A., Chicago, Texas, and Colorado. Right about now they’re doing what me and my team are doing—delivering the samples to labs that can handle the initial manufacturing.”

Krycek sat back. “As for New York, we managed to contact two facilities in Manhattan and one north of town. They’re waiting for the samples. One container will go to Avenix Life Sciences on 58th. The second batch is to go to Klein and Johnson on 45th. The last one is to go to our new facility south of Eastchester. As soon as we drop everything off, they’ll begin manufacturing but it will take two, possibly three days for the first lots. We’re not expecting a big run this first time—everything depends on how much of the necessary materials each facility has on hand.”

There were so many holes in Krycek’s plan that John didn’t know where to start so he chose the most obvious: “Necessary materials? That doesn’t inspire a lot of confidence.”

Krycek shrugged. “It’s been a difficult process. No one was prepared. Our teams have been working twenty-four seven to find a solution which means they started with known cures and worked from there.”

“You said the meteor passed over the country in February and it’s now the middle of April. That isn’t a lot of time for testing,” Harold observed. “I’m assuming you weren’t able to follow standard procedures.”

“We weren’t able to follow anything,” Krycek answered. “I took the vaccine myself only a day ago. I have no idea if it works. I’m hoping it does because one of the infected grabbed my neck when I was running through that smoke cloud.”

That was news to John but apparently not to Krycek’s men—they glanced at each other, shifting uneasily.

“Don’t worry,” Krycek said with a mordant grin. “Bennet will take care of me if I turn.”

Bennet frowned but said nothing.

“I suppose that leads to my next question,” Harold said. “A vaccine is usually intended as a preventative measure but you call it a cure. _Has_ it been tested on one of the sick?”

“Yes. We’ve got a patient undergoing treatment as we speak.”

“Because we’ve observed that there seems to be a lag time between infection to death—weeks, in fact.”

“Are you a doctor, Mr. Finch?”

Harold made a shooing gesture. “It’s Harold and no. Like many people I have a smattering of knowledge. Probably enough to make me dangerous,” he added quickly with a quicker smile.

Everyone smiled in return. Everyone except John and Krycek.

John was long aware that Harold was the most dangerous man in any room—did Krycek somehow guess the same? “This patient of yours, the one being given the vaccine. How long was he exposed?”

“Not long,” Krycek answered. “At the most, two hours.”

John leaned on his elbows. “There’s a big difference between two hours and two days, Agent Krycek. Or two weeks.”

“I’m no longer with the FBI,” Krycek reminded John. “And yes, it _is_ a big difference. We found out that the hard way. The first trials were a success but our doctors discovered the antidote wasn’t effective on the newly sick. And then…” He hesitated. “Two days ago, our testing facility was attacked.” Amid a chorus of soft gasps, Krycek continued, “We lost all our patients. We haven’t had time to run a full investigation; the theory is that a foreign national gained entry into the building to steal the formula. Lucky for us, our researchers were paranoid and kept a separate storage unit of the latest version of the vaccine.”

“It could have been an attempt at corporate sabotage,” Harold murmured.

“It could have been a lot of things,” Krycek replied. “We’ll worry about that once we’re back on our feet.”

“To that end,” Harold said. “You currently have the one patient. How is he? Or is it a she?”

John had been observing the newcomers the whole time. Bennet, Cole, and Webb had sat there, their faces bland but not impassive; they gave themselves away every now and then with a fidget or a nod. Krycek, on the other hand, was like a still pond—except for the occasional pause, his inflection hadn’t changed and neither had his expression. In John’s experience, that kind of control couldn’t be trained or taught. It was the product of years of doing dangerous, maybe questionable things in the service of a company or country. Or countries.

But now, for the first time since that moment in the church sanctuary, Krycek’s calm fractured and he revealed himself in what seemed to be a small wince of pain, barely noticeable but there. “It’s a he, and I’m not sure. When I spoke to them last, the patient’s immune system was rejecting the drug. If the sat phone was working, I’d call.”

“Oh,” Harold said, getting to his feet. “About that…” He hurried from the room.

John watched Harold leave and then reached out for Leila, “I can take her, Lionel.”

Carefully, Fusco gave Leila to John. She made a sleepy sound and then stuck her thumb in her mouth.

“She’s a sweet kid,” Fusco said. “You gonna get some pepper or something?”

John got the throw off the back of the sofa and made a cushion of it. He settled Leila in the middle and wrapped a fold over her feet. “Why do I need pepper or something?”

“You know…” Fusco gestured to Leila. “So she stops sucking her thumb. Otherwise her teeth are gonna grow in crooked.”

“There are better ways to prevent dental problems, Detective” Harold said as he came back in the room. “We will not be dosing her with seasonings. Mr. Krycek…” He handed Krycek a phone. “It wasn’t the charger or the battery. There was problem with the circuitry. I fixed it.”

Krycek took the phone and turned it on. He looked up. “Thank you.”

Harold made that odd, side-to-side shift that said he was pleased. “An overload such as the one you experienced isn’t normal. I have an idea that the electronics in your prosthetic is causing the problem. I’d be happy to examine the arm for you.”

Expression neutral once more, Krycek said, “We won’t have the time.”

“I’ll only need a few hours.”

Krycek hesitated. Many soldiers lost limbs and some never recovered from the loss but Krycek’s caution wasn’t due to that; John was sure of it.

“Harold,” John began, when Krycek nodded abruptly and interrupted with, “I’ll think about it. After the mission.”

“Speaking of…” Harold sat down on the other side of Leila. “How did you plan to get to the locations you mentioned?”

Krycek held up the phone. “I need to make a call first.”

“Of course,” Harold said. “If you need privacy, my study is available.”

Krycek was already dialing. He stood up and said, “That’s okay. I won’t be long.”

The call was picked up immediately and everyone pretended not to listen in as Krycek paced and talked. The gist of the call wasn’t difficult to understand; apparently the CDC’s test subject wasn’t doing well. When Krycek hung up, his expression was once more grim. No one made the mistake of asking for details.

“All right,” Krycek said once he was sitting down again. “The mission: it’s simple enough.” He glanced at Bennet. “We need to deliver the vaccine to the labs. Our biggest concern had been navigating the streets because we thought we’d have to drive through mobs.”

“And now—excusing the bad pun,—you find you have to fight your way through the other kind of mob.” Harold mused. “Going on foot is dangerous, especially with precious cargo, but the city is out of fuel. The filling stations were raided and the cars have been drained. You won’t be driving anywhere.”

It happened overnight. Not by gangs or the government, but by normal citizens. They’d gotten hoses and drained the juice out of all the vehicles. John had come across a group siphoning off the last of a gas station’s fuel. The thieves had seen him and scurried away like roaches. He’d returned home and told Harold, making a joke about a lot of lawns being mowed; Harold hadn’t been amused.

Krycek sat back. “There’s no gas _any_ where?”

Harold shook his head. “None.“

“Well,” John said conversationally. “Not exactly.”

Harold turned. His glasses reflected the lamp, hiding his eyes. “What have you done?”

John brushed away a piece of lint on his pants that wasn’t there. “What I had to do.”

“I told you no special treatment, no hoarding.”

“And you know what I said to that.”

The silence was weighted and dense, and every eye was turned their way. John didn’t blink as he waited Harold out. Harold preferred to forget John’s past. It was, John had decided, a convenient misplacement of memory that made it easier for Harold to love him. Compared to those acts of murder and mayhem, stealing a truckload of fuel from Mini was tame by comparison.

“John—”

“Harold,” John interrupted calmly, “do you want to argue about something I’ve already done or would you like to see what I’ve got?”

Harold pressed his lips together, then said tersely, “Lead the way.”

***

Elizabeth stayed to watch Leila. Trask and the dog stayed, too, mostly because Trask wanted to be with Elizabeth, but also because they both already knew what was in the sub-basement. After all, they were the ones that had helped John when he’d told them about his newly stolen acquisitions.

John used the service elevator; from there they went right and then another left.

“Where are we?” Fusco muttered as he passed under a bundle of loose wire.

John held the wiring out of Harold’s way. “Under the main parking lot.”

“How on earth did you get anything down here?” Harold asked, stepping around a puddle with a moué of distaste.

“Via the entrance on the west end of the parking garage.”

“There isn’t an entrance on the west end of the parking lot,” Fusco said with a frown. “Is there?”

“There is now.”

It had taken Trask and John two days, a sledgehammer, and a tiny amount of C4 to create an access from point A to point B. They’d added a ramp using the concrete debris and lumber stolen from a hardware store. To secure the entrance from the sub-basement to the parking lot, they’d hidden the hole with a stack of boxes on the inside and two dumpsters on the outside.

It had been worth the effort he thought with no small amount of satisfaction when he pointed his flashlight at the six gleaming Ducatis in the center of the big storage unit.

Harold gazed at the motorcycles. “How on earth do you expect to—”

John raised the flashlight and traced the barrels lined up against the wall.

Harold tsked, but Fusco and Krycek and his men were already examining the motorcycles.

“I’m assuming you didn’t pay for these,” Harold murmured.

“I left a note,” John said mildly.

“I’m also assuming you weren’t stockpiling these machines for all and sundry.”

“I was not.” The bikes, fuel, and the cache of food and gear stored in one of the barrels were to be his last line of defense. He even had the route picked out, a straight line north that ended at the safe house near Montrose he’d purchased after Leila had come into their lives.

“John,” Harold sighed.

“I’m not going to say it again,” John said softly. “I’ll do what I need to do to keep you and Leila safe. End of story.”

Krycek turned. “I’m glad you did, otherwise we’d have a big problem.”

“Which one do I get?” Fusco called out.

“It seems I’m outnumbered,” Harold said. “Very well.” He twisted to look up at John. “What’s your plan?”

***

There wasn’t much _to_ plan other than assigning the routes to each courier. Back in the living room, John quashed Krycek’s suggestion of traveling in a group, pointing out that the purr of the Ducati’s motors would announce their presence, alerting the gangs and the normal citizens wanting a way out of the city. If they left at the same time, he said, by the time the gangs knew what was what, it would be too late.

The only bone of contention had been which riders would go to Eastchester. John wanted to go, it being the unknown quantity. Harold said no, it was too far. Fusco and Elizabeth said the same with Trask nodding in agreement.

With Leila still sleeping between them, John and Harold argued the pros and cons.

Krycek watched without a word until he interrupted Harold with a quiet, “I think you should go with me, Mr. Reese. Based on what you said, the riskiest trip will be to Avenix, even though it’s the closest.” When John didn’t answer, Krycek added, “At least some of samples _must_ get to that location. Avenix has the most supplies and personnel. And, if the building’s as near the gang’s base as you say it is, I’ll need you.”

John glanced at Fusco and then at Harold and then finally, at Krycek. “It seems I’m outnumbered,” he said with a wry, pointed smile.

Harold pursed his lips.

“If it makes you feel better, Bennett can take Detective Fusco,” Krycek offered.

“It doesn’t make me feel better,” John said.

“Hey!” Fusco said.

John ignored Fusco’s outrage and said, “All right. Fusco goes with Bennett and Carter will stay here.” He waited for Harold’s objection, something along the lines of: _‘We’re perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves, Mr. Reese.’_

Harold said nothing other than, “Then it’s settled.” He got to his feet. “And Leila needs to be in bed. Where is Miss Morgan?”

John picked up Leila and was about to answer when the apartment door open.

“Knock, knock?” Carter said.

“We’re in here, Detective,” Harold answered.

Trailed by Davis, Carter came into the room.

“Joss.” Harold reached for the throw. “How did you sleep?”

Carter smiled. “Fine. I’m a little hungry.”

Harold nodded. “Of course. I should have thou—”

_“Krycek?”_

John froze. Everyone else did, too. As one, they turned to Davis.

Davis brushed by Carter and said again, “Krycek?” His voice was mean but his expression was meaner. “What the _fuck_? You’re supposed to be dead.”

Krycek didn’t move. He didn’t even blink.

“Detective Davis!” Harold said. “Please watch your language.”

With a soft, _“Go,”_ John handed Leila to Elizabeth and then moved in front of Harold. Elizabeth retreated to the side of the room. Harold didn’t move.

“So the double-crosser made it out alive.” Davis sneered, ignoring everyone but Krycek. “I heard about that,” he added, nodding to Krycek’s prosthetic arm. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

Carter reached for Davis’s arm. “Davis. What is goi—”

Davis jerked free and took another step towards Krycek. “Do they know?”

Krycek finally spoke, “Stephen. It’s been a while.”

Davis sneered and rested his hand on his weapon. “Yeah, the last time I saw you, you tried to kill me.”

Carter pulled her pistol out of the holster. “Davis, you need to—”

Without taking his eye off Davis, John said, “Harold, _go._ Take Elizabeth and Leila to the safe room.”

Harold of course had to object, “I am not—”

Ignoring everyone but Davis, Krycek’s lip curled. “It wasn’t my fault you were bad at your job.”

Davis snarled and Carter stepped back as she pulled her pistol out of the holster.

_“_ Harold _,”_ John said calmly, his gaze never leaving Davis. “If you don’t leave right now, I’m going to be very angry.” In the taut silence, he heard Harold gulp. From the periphery, John watched Carter cover Harold and Elizabeth as they scurried from the room. When the room was clear, he turned towards Davis. “Whatever issues you two have, they’re not going to be resolved here.”

Davis ignored John; his breath increased, his eyes narrowed.

“Detective,” John tried one more time, feeling the freezing surge of pure rage. “This is my home. If you draw your weapon, I will take you down.”

Davis drew his weapon.

Several things happened as once: Bennet shouted, Carter lunged, and John leaped over the sofa. He grabbed Davis’s wrist and yanked, forcing Davis around to elbow him in the jaw. It was a savage jab and he heard it connect with a muted thud. Fusco yelled but it was already over—John jerked and Davis cried out, then dropped his gun and fell to the carpet.

Blood streaming from his lip, Davis rolled to his back and smiled up at John. “Did he tell you?” he said through bloodied teeth. “Did he tell you he’s a spy and a traitor?”

John almost laughed. “No.”

“He was working for those bastards in Moscow the whole time. He’s the one that should be in prison, not me.”

John crouched beside Davis. He’d been here so many times before, listing out the options, wishing his opponent would surprise him. “You need to make a choice: Are you going to be good or am I going to have to do something about it?”

Davis hesitated and then wiped his mouth. “Who _are_ you? Carter said you’re just some guy but that was a lie, wasn’t it? Are you working with _him?”_ Davis shot a mean glance Krycek’s way. “Are you a traitor, too?”

John sighed, not surprised that there was no surprise. “Have it your way,” he murmured, and then raised his arm.

***

_“John!”_ Carter hissed.

“I heard you the first time, Carter,” John said as he shifted his load. Davis was surprisingly heavy for being so short. “I’m sorta busy, here.”

“Where are you taking him?”

“For now, the room down the hall. Later on, who knows?”

“John!”

“Carter,” John twisted to look at her. “You can either help or you can go back to the apartment.”

Carter was never a fan of his ultimatums and her jaw worked. And then she nodded.

Always a fan of contingencies, John had planned for something like this and he stopped in front of the room that used to be a janitor’s closet. Instead of a normal lock, it now had a deadbolt and security panel. Shifting Davis, he punched in the number and then opened the door.

“What is this?” Carter asked.

John had cleared out the shelves and the supplies, leaving only a bare, empty room. He dumped Davis, not bothering to cushion his head. “It’s my own personal lock-up.”

“Is he going to be able to breath in here?”

John checked Davis for an ankle holster or other weapons. He found only a knife and a roll of twenties; he gave both to Carter. “There’s a vent,” he said, securing Davis with the man’s own handcuffs.

“And after?”

John stood up. “I’m fine with dropping him off in the park but Harold wouldn’t like it.”

“You’re not serious?”

John turned. “The man threatened Harold and my daughter.” It was the first time he’d said it out loud and he repeated it silently, _my daughter._ For two rather simple words, they’d had enormous power and he felt a weird, hollow ache as if something intrinsic had changed inside, something deep and permanent and true.

One eyebrow raised, Carter nodded hesitantly. And then she smiled. “Okay. I get it.”

“I know you would.”

***

John told the dog to guard the door and then returned to the apartment. Harold was in the kitchen, doing the dishes. Carter murmured something about the bathroom and left.

John leaned against the doorjamb and watched. “Where are our guests?” Harold was leaning a bit to the left; his back was probably hurting more than usual.

“In the living room. Lieutenant Fusco and Mr. Trask deemed it necessary to bind them. Their weapons are in your armory.”

They were almost out of the pain meds that Harold only occasionally used—John was going to have to do something about that. “And Leila?”

Harold balanced a saucepan on top of another. “She’s asleep. Elizabeth went home.” He turned stiffly to look at John. “I have no idea where Miss Morgan went.”

“She’ll turn up.”

“How long do you plan on keeping Detective Davis in that room?”

“I suppose until the end of time isn’t the answer you’re looking for.”

Harold frowned.

John sighed and pushed away from the door. He got a dishtowel from the drawer and picked up a saucepan. “He knows about me, Harold. And now he knows about Leila.”

“And?”

“And I’m going to have to make sure he never talks.”

“You can’t just kill him, John.”

_Of course I can,_ was his facetious, first-in-line response. Harold, however, was right; he’d never been any good at indiscriminant killing though he’d tried. And tried and tried… “As soon as I have the time, I’ll take care of it.”

“And Mr. Krycek?”

John didn’t have time to answer; he felt more than saw the figure at the doorway. He grabbed the chef’s knife and turned.

Standing in the doorway, Krycek raised the broken zip tie and smirked; his prosthetic was missing. “It’s hard to secure me.”

A shadow moved against the wall. It was Carter, sneaking up behind Krycek; she had her weapon aimed.

A flicker of his eyes showed that Krycek knew she was there; he just cocked his head and said, “We need to talk.”

***

John made sure Bennet and the others were still incapacitated, then led Krycek to the small study. He dragged the desk chair to the corner and ordered, “Sit.”

Harold had retrieved Krycek’s satellite phone and the prosthetic and he sat as well, choosing the sofa. John perched on the sofa’s arm. Carter remained standing.

Harold placed his hands on his knees but it was John that said, “Well?”

Krycek glanced at the sat phone. “Can I check in first?”

John fielded that one: “You can as soon as we get some answers.”

Krycek glanced at the phone again and then shrugged. He sat back in the chair, the picture of calm. “Stephen was right. In the nineties. I was in contact with Russian operatives.” As if expecting shocked gasps, Krycek waited. When no one said anything, he continued, “In reality, I was working for a consortium based here in the U.S. When my cover was blown, I went underground.”

“Sounds like you were real broken up about it,” Carter said.

“At the time, no, I didn’t care. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“When one says that,” Carter murmured drily, “it generally means the exact opposite.”

Krycek shrugged.

John crossed his arms over his chest. “Did you quit the FBI?”

“I had to.”

“And your new position centered around?”

“Information retrieval.”

Information retrieval—such a broad term for such a specific activity, one that might encompass anything and usually did. “In regards to?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Is that when you lost your arm?”

Krycek nodded. “There was an incident in Russia.”

“What year?”

“1996.”

John glanced at Harold. Bingo. “This consortium—who are they?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

Not surprised by the answer, John tried another angle, “How long did you work for them?”

“Until 2001. After that, I got out.”

“How?”

“There was another incident. I saw my opportunity.”

“To do what?”

“To become someone else.”

John very carefully didn’t look at Harold. The parallels weren’t shocking. More than a few people in his line of work eventually grew a conscience. Most, however, never lived long enough to anything about it. “Was your partner a spy, too?”

Krycek frowned. “What partner?”

“Fox William Mulder,” John said. “Was he a double agent as —”

“No.”

Krycek hadn’t shouted—he’d just said ‘no.’ But Harold jerked back and Carter frowned. John, however, leaned forward.

Krycek drew a deep breath and struggled to regain his composure. “No,” he repeated. “Mulder had nothing to do with any of that. He was a good agent, he’s a good man. Leave him alone.”

Interesting. Harold thought the same thing because his gaze had sharpened; John could almost _feel_ Harold’s curiosity, the need to know more.

“So he wasn’t with this consortium?”

“I told you, no, it was just me.”

“And why _was_ that, Mr. Krycek?” Harold said, speaking for the first time since they had sat down. “It’s clear this consortium had their own interests. It’s clear they were working with the former Soviet Union. Which means _you_ were working for an enemy of the United States. What inducements could they have possibly offered to get you to betray your country? What information were you gathering?”

“I can’t tell you. And I need to make that call.”

“This incident in 2001,” Harold said, ignoring Krycek’s demand, “after which you _didn’t_ become someone else, by the way, you stayed the same: How did you do that?”

“I can’t tell you that, either,” Krycek replied. “But I’ve got a question for you: how did you know who I am?”

Harold shrugged. “I have my own means of retrieving information. Please answer my question.”

Krycek hesitated, then nodded as if putting the topic aside for the time being. “I have friends that are good at erasing things.”

“You mean your identity. Nothing is ever permanently erased, especially from the internet.”

“I know.”

Harold touched Krycek’s plastic arm. “Detective Davis indicated that he spent some time in prison or that he should be _in_ prison. Can you enlighten us as to his meaning?”

Krycek glanced at Carter. “I don’t know what he meant but his last name isn’t Davis—it’s Sullivan. I worked with him at the Bureau.”

John glanced at Carter. “Detective?”

She shrugged. “You know what I know. He said he came from the 63rd but it’s impossible to check the records. He had a badge and the uniform.”

“Something he could have gotten off another officer in any number of ways.” Harold’s tone was muted. “It wouldn’t be the first time your institution has been infiltrated.”

John reminded Harold, “It’s not her fault.”

“I’m not saying it is,” Harold turned to John. “It’s just as it comes at an inconvenient time.” He turned back to Krycek. “Which brings me to the only subject that I suppose _does_ matter. This new information has put us in a bit of a quandary, Mr. Krycek. We want to help you but how can we trust you?”

“Trust,” Krycek muttered before saying in a louder voice, “I never asked for your help.”

Harold nodded. “That’s true. But if your mission requires traveling to several parts of the city, you’re going to require it.”

Krycek frowned and didn’t answer for the longest time. Finally, he looked at his watch and then said, “I need to make that phone call and I suppose that’s all the inducement you need to get me to do or say whatever you want.”

In John’s experience, cooperation was generally the product of leverage and that leverage generally only worked when the threats were centered on a loved one. But he didn’t point that out because Krycek was working up to something.

“I’m not going to apologize to anyone,” Krycek finally said, his voice rock hard. “If I made mistakes, they have nothing to do with what’s going on here. You can help me or let me go.” He looked up at John. “But remember, I warned you that I’d do anything to get those samples to the labs.”

John wanted to smile. For most, those would be fighting words, proof that Krycek was dangerous and out for his own interests. For John, it proved that Krycek could be trusted to do the right thing, at least in the short term. Afterwards, of course, was another matter all together. “Harold,” John said. “Give him the phone.”

No one was more surprised than Krycek. Hesitantly, Harold held out the phone; hesitantly, Krycek took it. With one eye on John, he dialed.

This time no one pretended not to listen in as Krycek talked to someone named Scully.

“It’s been too long; maybe you’re giving him too much.” There was a long answer and then Krycek said, “What does Dr. Good think?” Another answer, this one shorter: “All right. No, it’s fine.” And then, after a quick glance up at Harold: “We’re discussing it right now. I think we’re gon—”

The other person interrupted Krycek. While he listened, he glanced at his watch. “It would have been nice to know that from the outset, Scully. Now we don’t have a choice.”

Another indistinct response and then Krycek nodded. “Yeah, okay, I’ll let them know. Tell Muld—” He glanced up at John and then Harold. “Never mind. I’ll tell him myself.”

Krycek hung up and then gave the phone back to Harold.

Harold waved it back, saying, “It’s yours, after all,” just as John asked, “What’s wrong?”

Krycek put the phone away. “What’s wrong is that our test patient still isn’t responding to the treatment like he’s supposed to. At least, they think he’s not. Plus, the group’s lead virologist, Dr. Good, now thinks the vaccine has a shelf life of forty-eight hours before it starts to degrade.”

“When did you leave Atlanta?” Carter asked.

Krycek’s smile was grim. “About thirty-seven hours ago.”

Harold stood up and turned to the door.

John craned his neck to look up at Harold. “Where are you going?”

“If the materials need to be delivered within the next eleven hours, Mr. Krycek and his friends need to rest and so do you. And I…” Harold raised Krycek’s arm. “…need to get busy.”

Krycek watched Harold leave with a look of surprise. “Just like that?”

John shrugged. “Just like that.”

***

Knowing it was probably pointless, John locked Krycek and his men in the apartment next to theirs, set a trip alarm, and then went to check on Davis or whatever his name was.

The dog wriggled as soon as he saw John but he didn’t rise.

John knelt and scratched the dog behind the ears. “How’s he doing in there?” he asked the dog.

The dog whined and then yipped.

“Do you need to go outside?”

The dog jumped up and then barked.

“Okay,” John said. “Let’s find a leash.” He needed to fix the window, anyway.

***

John met up with Ernie Trask in the lobby.

“Mr. R.” Ernie was pushing a small pile of trash across the floor with his broom.

“Don’t you ever sleep, Trask?”

Ernie grinned. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead; you know that.” He nodded to the doors. “Me and Elizabeth figured you had enough on your plate so we reinforced that window on 79th and did a perimeter walk. Everything looks good.”

John smiled. “Thanks, Ernie.”

Trask shrugged and smiled. “Just doing my part. Hey…” He nodded to the dog. “You come up with a name yet?”

John touched the dog’s head. “Not yet.”

***

After the dog had done his business and was run out, John stationed him at Krycek’s door and went back to the apartment. Harold was busy in the workroom. John didn’t bother saying anything—Harold was in the zone and wouldn’t appreciate being disturbed.

In bed by midnight, John was dozing, waiting for Harold, when the door opened and closed. “That better be you,” he murmured into the pillow.

“It is,” Harold said. “I just gave Mr. Krycek’s arm back. I didn’t disturb your booby trap, by the way.”

“Thanks.” He could hear the soft sounds of Harold getting ready for bed. “Did you put a tracker in the arm?”

“No. I was going to and then decided he’d find it when he got back to Atlanta. He clearly doesn’t trust me and his friends seem quite adept at electronics.”

“And you want to be _their_ friend?”

“I want to find out how they deleted him from the internet.”

“Maybe the Machine is just smarter than they are.”

“As you pointed out, the Machine was doing all it could to give us information and all it managed was a twenty-year old plane ticket and a flyer from a conference. If there’d been anything else available, it would have given us that, too.”

“I suppose.” John pushed his arm under the pillow. “Did you catch that the test patient is Fox Mulder?”

“Yes, and that Mr. Krycek as much admitted that Mr. Mulder is no longer with the agency.”

“It’s odd.”

“What is?”

“Good agents generally don’t leave the Bureau before retirement unless they’re forced out.”

“That _is_ odd.” Harold opened the closet door. “I thought you were going to have your four-legged menace guard Davis’s door?”

“I was but Krycek is the bigger threat.”

“Bigger than a man we know nothing about? A man who might have broken out of prison?”

“Make no mistake, Harold, Krycek may speak softly but I think his stick is almost as big as mine.”

“Is that a double entendre?”

John snorted. “Not even hardly.”

“I wouldn’t blame you—he’s very good looking.”

John opened his eyes. “Should I be jealous?”

“Not even hardly.” There was a pause and then Harold asked, “Will he be okay?”

“Who?” John asked absently, still thinking, _Should I be jealous?_ He knew he was attractive—he’d banked on his good looks more than a few times. He also knew that though Harold appreciated his looks, he was equally attracted to the things he could _do_ , because Harold was a form and function kind of man and Alex Krycek had both. “The dog or Davis or Krycek?”

“All three, I suppose.”

Deciding he _wasn’t_ jealous, John said, “The dog has food and water. He’ll be fine. Davis and Krycek will be, too.” If Davis wasn’t, that would solve their problem, but John wasn’t about to say that.

“John.”

“Yes?”

“This vaccine—are you sure it’s worth risking your life on the word of a former spy?”

He turned over. Harold was standing by the dresser. He was wearing his pajamas and holding his trousers. “I’m a former spy, too. In a way, I still am.”

“Yes, but he worked with the Russians. You never did.”

John held out his hand. “Put those pants down, Harold, and come here.”

Harold draped the trousers over the chair and came around the bed. He sat on the edge. “What is it?”

He took Harold’s hand. “Just…” For a good part of his career, John had done unsavory acts in the service of his country. For all he knew, those acts could have been in aid of a foreign power. If it had suited the country’s interests, his handlers wouldn’t have even blinked. And so the big question was, if he _had_ known, what would he have done?

“What is it?”

Suddenly tired, John shook his head. “Nothing. We have an early start.” He stroked Harold’s hand with his thumb. “Turn off the light and come to bed.”

Harold stared, a heavy scrutiny John was very familiar with. Harold was balancing the ways and means of getting him to talk, measuring risk versus the reward. If push came to shove, John would probably dive into it and answer Harold’s question, hoping whatever he would say would come out right. But Harold was a private man and if he hadn’t learned to value John’s need for the same, he at least tried.

As if to prove John’s unstated point, Harold nodded abruptly and then turned off the light.

***

The first part of the mission went off without a hitch.

John kissed Harold goodbye in the privacy of their room while Fusco retrieved Krycek and his men. They ate breakfast together then put on their gear and went downstairs. They rolled the bikes out of the garage, making an effort to be as quiet as possible. The rising sun had colored the soft clouds in oranges and soft reds. _Red sky at night, sailor’s delight; red sky at morning, sailors take warning,_ John thought, reminding himself that a little cloud cover meant nothing. And that he wasn’t a sailor.

Still, he couldn’t help a shiver of unease as they all whispered their, _‘Good luck’s’_ and then started the bikes.

The motors were startling loud in the dead stillness. As they took off—John and Krycek to the south—the other three to the north, John figuratively crossed his fingers that he hadn’t just wasted perfectly good getaway material.

But it was nice and like a dream, traveling through the streets at forty miles an hour. They slipped between vehicles and around trash and debris. It was too early for the gangs and too bright for the sick so their only observers were a couple dogs and a flock of pigeons. As a precautionary measure, they avoided Columbus Circle and made a big loop towards the river and then back around. When they got within sight of the Avenix building, Krycek tapped the horn. John nodded and let Krycek take the lead.

The facility was typical, like any other New York high-rise—made of concrete and stone and a whole lot of glass, it was fronted by a raised, flat plaza and the usual planters and benches. Scattered in front of the building was the detritus of a small-scale war and that was anything but typical.

John was assuming the stairs would pose a problem but Krycek didn’t hesitate—he jumped the sidewalk and then rode up the steps easily. When they got closer to the building, they slowed down to reconnoiter.

The building’s residents had taken the familiar safeguards—they’d boarded up the windows on the first floor with particleboard and what looked like white boards. They had, however, gone an extra step—what John had thought was the aftermath of some battle was actually a manmade barrier about fifteen feet deep and five feet high. Constructed of office desks, sofas, bookcases and chairs, the jumbled barrier arced in a ragged line in front of the building with a single point of entry: a chute of upholstery, wood and steel.

Behind his helmet, Krycek shouted, “Let’s go!” and then headed for the gap. John followed, chancing a quick glance back as he entered the chute. Their arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed—several people were running up the street.

Feeling as if he had a target on his back, John passed through the chute towards the double doors where two guards waited with raised weapons.

Krycek got off his motorcycle and started for the doors.

“Hey!” John called out, pushing his bike.

Krycek looked over his shoulder and then waved. He returned for his motorcycle and together, they jogged the bikes up to the entrance.

There was a moment, very brief but tense, when John wondered if they’d have to shoot their way through the doors because the guards hadn’t moved. But then one of them nodded shortly and they both stepped aside.

Inside the wide foyer was more of the same. John found himself face-to-face with guns and knives, this time held by a row of men and women. The weapons were mostly pistols and the people varied in age. A kid in front was about twenty; her rifle was almost as old. Beyond the line of firepower was another group of what looked like office workers. To the right was a staircase that led to the second and third floors; to the left was a big pile of more furniture.

John dropped the bike’s kickstand and then held up his hands, the universal, _don’t shoot me_ gesture. He slowly took off his helmet. “Krycek?” he murmured.

“I’m on it,” Krycek whispered as he to removed his helmet. He set the helmet on the bike and then scrubbed his hair, asking, “Which one of you is Dr. Samuel Carmichael?”

A man and a women were hurrying down the stairs. “I am,” the man called out, his voice echoing. He was African-American, about fifty with greying hair and a limp. The woman was younger and fair-haired. They were both wearing lab coats and it wasn’t until the crowd had made way for them that John saw those lab coats had seen better days.

Frowning, Carmichael glanced first at John and then Krycek. “Alexander Krycek?” he asked.

“Here.” Krycek reached out. “It’s good to finally meet you, Doctor.”

“Same here.” And then Carmichael smiled, his entire demeanor changing as he gave Krycek’s prosthetic a two-handed squeeze. Behind him, the white-collar troops lowered their weapons. “We were worried when you didn’t show up last night. We tried to call the number you gave us but we couldn’t get a signal. We’re very glad you’re here.”

Krycek shrugged an apology. “Yeah, the phone’s satellite link has been acting up. I only manage to get through a fifth of the time.”

“Is that…” Carmichael gestured to Krycek’s backpack.

“Yes.” Krycek touched the backpack as he nodded to John. “And this is John. He’s the reason why I made it.”

John bent his lips in a smile.

Already walking towards the elevators, Carmichael gave John a distracted nod, obviously not interested in John’s supposed heroics. He gestured vaguely to the women beside him. “My lab is on the fifth floor. We’ll take the elevator. This is my second-in-command, Jenny. She’s the one you talked to the other day. We’re all ready with the materials you requested. I have to say I’m confused by your request for potassium iodine. We found it hasn’t had any effect whatso—”

Interrupting Carmichael with an, “Hold on,” Krycek turned to John. “You coming?”

John smiled another not-smile. “You go on.” He jerked his head to the crowd. “They might need another rifle.” _And I’m not in the mood for doctor babble._

Krycek raised an eyebrow but only said, “I’ll be as quick as I can. You might want to figure out how we’re gonna make it back to your base.”

“Will do.” John waited until Krycek and the two doctors had left before turning to the others. “I could use a cup of coffee if you have any.”

“We ran out days ago,” said one of the women. “Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” John said. “No coffee, huh? That can’t be fun.”

That got a few smiles.

“You ran into a situation?,” a man said. “Gangs or the walking dead?”

“Both,” John answered. The crowd gathered round him. Like the doctor’s, their clothing was dirty and their faces haggard. “The gangs out there want the CDC’s chopper, and the infected, well…” He smiled and shrugged.

An older White woman stepped forward; she was carrying a baseball bat. “We think they’re getting more aggressive.”

“They are,” John agreed. “Would any of you have any idea why that is?”

There was a general shuffling of feet and what looked like sheepish glances and then the older woman said, “We’re not doctors.”

“Don’t tell me,” John said. “In exchange for your assistance, the folks upstairs are letting you stay until the real help comes.”

Another shuffling of feet.

“And this moat you made.” John tipped his head towards the clutter of furniture outside. “Who’s idea was that?”

The woman gripped her rifle and clenched her jaw. “Mine.”

John raised an eyebrow. “I’m not criticizing. It looks like it’s doing the job.”

The woman smiled. “Thanks. We figured out after a few days that the sick prefer easy access.” She tucked her bat under her arm and then nodded to the stairs. “Do you want to see…?”

“Sure.”

“So, yes,” the woman said as she led the way. “The gangs and looters were the real worry.”

There was a dark stain on the carpeted stairs. It looked like blood. “And furniture stopped them?”

The woman snorted softly. “Not at first. They’d crash through; we’d beat them back and then reinforce the line the next morning. Eventually, they just stopped. By then things were pretty rough so we figured they’d moved on to easier prey.”

“Probably.”

“How is it out there?”

“Not good.”

“Why haven’t the police helped?”

They’d reached the second floor but the woman didn’t stop. “Because they’re just as scared. Because they probably ran out of ammo weeks ago.”

“So they’re all just waiting?” the woman asked with tired outrage. “Like us?”

“How to you prepare for the unpreparable?” John asked softly, thinking of Krycek’s comment.

“Well, I guess the fact that we haven’t all killed each other is something.”

“I guess,” John answered absently. The third floor had a gallery that had actually been a gallery. Crooked pictures hung on the walls and furniture huddled in the middle. The rest of the space was filled with sleeping bags and piles of clothes; off to the side were stacks of books and magazines. Square in the middle and close to the windows was a chair. “Is this your bivouac?”

The woman nodded. “When we realized we couldn’t leave, we chose offices but none of us were comfortable on our own.” She went to the windows; John followed. “And we wanted to see them coming so we sleep here and keep a two-hour guard rotation.”

John leaned against the cool glass. The view was perfect; he had a clear shot 58th, 10th, a little bit of 57th as well as the plaza below. The plaza where a large group of people had gathered. There were about thirty of them, pacing back and forth and looking up at the building. From what John could see, a couple of the men had guns, but most were unarmed.

“This is where we spend most of our time,” the woman explained. “They can’t see you, by the way—the windows are mirrored.”

“What are the other access points?” John said.

“We secured the delivery bay and side doors weeks ago but there’s a freight elevator that used to lead to an old subway tunnel. We boarded it up but if anyone finds it…” The woman’s voice dropped. “I guess we should have figured out a way to close it.”

John looked over at the woman. “You never want to leave a single exit. You were smart.” He held out his hand. “I’m John, by the way.”

The woman lost her frown. “Casey. Casey Benjamin.” She shook John’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

John shook Casey’s hand. “So, Casey…” He turned back to the window. “What did you do before all this?”

Casey grinned ruefully. “I was a teacher, if you can believe it.”

“I can believe it.”

“And you?”

“Oh…” Another group was coming from the south; they were armed with rifles and baseball bats. Great. “I did a little bit of this and a little bit of that.”

“Meaning you’re a cop or detective?”

“What made you ask that?”

Casey shrugged. “My father-in-law was a detective; you all are sort of the same.”

John smiled and said without turning around, “Should I be insulted?”

“No.”

“Good.”

Neither spoke for a moment and then Casey asked, “John?”

“Yes?”

“We’re running pretty low on supplies and ammunition. I’m not sure how much longer we can hold out.”

John turned. Casey’s expression hadn’t changed but it didn’t take a psychologist to understand that tone of voice or that blank look of held-in panic. “You know what’s going on upstairs, right?”

“They’ve been pretty hush-hush but we think it’s a cure.”

“It is. The government is getting a handle on the situation. Once that happens, everything will get better. Plus, I’m told there are supplies being shipped in.”

Casey’s face brightened. “Really?”

“Really,” John lied just as smoothly has he had before. Hope was what Casey et al needed now; hope would give them the strength and the will to get through this day and the next. “But just in case, I’ll check back in on you and bring ammunition and food.”

“Tha—”

“Hey.”

John and Casey turned—Krycek was coming up the stairs.

“All done?” John asked.

“Almost,” Krycek answered. He looked at Casey. “Are you Miss Benjamin? A woman downstairs was asking about you.”

Casey gave John a rueful smile. “That would be Laquisha. Once a teacher…”

“Always a teacher,” John supplied because it was expected of him.

“I’ll see you before you leave.” Casey nodded and then left them.

Krycek waited until Casey was out of sight and then said, “You figure out our escape route?” He joined John at the window. “Because we’re not getting out that way,” he added with a tip of his chin.

John could only agree. There were now about forty or fifty people down there. The chute that acted as a control would effectively act as a shooting gallery once they’d cleared the opening. He and Krycek could stay until night and then sneak out but he had a feeling the mob wasn’t going anywhere. “Casey said there’s a freight elevator that leads to an old subway tunnel.”

“This far north?”

“You know your Manhattan.”

“I had to,” Krycek replied.

“In your work with the consortium,” John mused. “What was that again?”

“Nice try. Anyway,” Krycek sighed, “if I told you, you’d never believe me.”

John shrugged. He hadn’t thought it would be that easy, that Krycek would just give in, but it didn’t hurt to give it a shot. And he’d gotten more than before, so that was something. “‘Almost?’”

“Doctor Carmichael is running some tests; he asked me to wait for the printouts to take back to Atlanta.”

“How long is it going to take?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Because” John said, pointing to the crowd. “They’re getting restless which means they’re gearing up to act and when they do, I don’t think a bunch of chairs and desks are gonna stop them.”

Krycek rubbed an impatient hand over his hair. “Yeah, you’re right. What do you suggest?”

“My preference would be to take our chances with the freight elevator, but if we do, these people will be vulnerable.” At Krycek’s perplexed frown, John added, “The mob will tear this place apart if they think the bikes are still in here. We need to make it obvious they’re not.”

“And after?”

“We’ll just have to hope they don’t start wondering what was in the backpack you’ll no longer have.”

Krycek nodded slowly. “All right—what do you suggest?”

John grinned.

***

“Remember,” John looked over his shoulder and called out over the growl of the bike’s engine. “If we move quick enough, Casey and her friends won’t need to cover us, so this is only gonna work if you stay on my ass.”

Krycek’s eyelashes flickered. “I can do that,” he called out as he closed his helmet’s faceplate.

John twisted again, this time to look up. Casey and her armed marksmen lined the third-floor gallery. “We go in ten seconds,” John shouted. “Are you ready?”

Casey nodded.

“Don’t shoot unless you absolutely have to—you don’t want to give them a reason to come back!”

Casey gestured, a salute and a goodbye, and then she and her people disappeared from view.

John settled back on the bike and gave it some gas. The engine responded. “All right,” he said to the two men flanking the doors. “On my count.” He secured his own faceplate and held up his fingers. _Three, two, one…_

The men yanked the doors open and John took off.

His plan worked like a charm.

The walls of the chute were dangerously close but he and Krycek were through in seconds. The crowd, as he’d expected, did the human thing and dove out of the way before they could think not to. It was kind of like a wave hitting a beach: the people stumbled back and then regrouped to leap forward. They were too late, however—John and Krycek reached the street with no incident. As one, they paused in the middle of the intersection.

Like a single organism, the mob hadn’t moved. They were in that indecision stage, each unconsciously following the other, minds racing to make sense of the situation.

John couldn’t have them making sense—he needed them enraged and unthinking and so he set in motion the next part of his plan—he opened his face plate and then flipped them off.

With a roar of collective fury, the crowd charged. John closed the helmet, then gunned the engine and headed towards 57th.

***

One of Krycek’s main objections to John’s plan was the few minutes they’d have to spend leading the crowd away from the lab. _‘If we go that slow, we’ll get shot—they do have guns, you know.’_

_‘Have you ever tried to shoot any kind of firearm while you’re running?’_ John had answered. _‘They’ll end up shooting each other. Besides, they’re disorganized and malnourished—I give them two blocks before they’re worn out.’_

Krycek’s reply had been too soft to hear.

For the most part, John had been right. He took a circuitous route designed to confuse and the mob ran out of steam after four or five minutes. A few hard cases got off decent shots; one hit a FedEx truck, another hit a nearby planter, but eventually, John and Krycek lost them on West End Avenue.

***

“Is it always like this?” Krycek asked as they pushed the bikes towards the apartment building.

John’s face was hot from the helmet but they were still a block away; no sense in getting sloppy. “Is what like what?”

“This…” Krycek glanced around. “It’s so quiet. A lady back there looked out her window but she didn’t wave or anything.”

“I’m assuming that during your time with your consortium, you saw action.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Then you know how it is—lack of sleep and food on top of being terrified? It demoralizes a person faster than torture ever will.”

Krycek didn’t answer right away and when he did, it was a thoughtful, “I suppose.” And then, “I heard you and Casey back there.”

John edged his way around an overturned blue plastic shopping cart; Krycek was right—it was strangely quiet. There could be a dozen reasons why, a dozen possible causes, of course. Maybe it was because the temperature had dropped and it felt like snow. “And?”

“She thought you were with NYPD.”

“But not you?”

“No, now that I’ve seen you in action, I know what you are.”

John liked Krycek but that didn’t mean he trusted him. “And what am I?”

“Hold up.” Krycek stopped in the middle of the street and then propped the bike against his hip so he could take off his helmet. “I hate these things,” he muttered as he scrubbed at his hair. “And nothing. It’s just that I spent most of my life undercover; I’m not a big fan of secrets anymore.”

John had stopped as well. He turned. “That could be a problem,” he said mildly. “Because I’m not about to tell you my life story.”

Krycek shrugged. “All right.”

“Me being who I am just saved your life.”

“I know.”

He wasn’t sure why Krycek’s comments made him so angry. Maybe it was because he didn’t like leaving Harold and it was going on eight hours. Maybe it was because he’d hadn’t liked leaving Casey and her crew to mop up whatever he might have started. Maybe he was just as demoralized as everyone else. “A little gratitude might be in order. And I’m expecting something from you, you know. When you get back to Atlanta, I need to you to push for some kind of action. These people need provisions.”

Krycek glanced over John’s shoulder. His eyes narrowed. “John?”

“It’s gonna take a lot because we need everything, bu—”

“John!”

John frowned. “What?”

Krycek pointed. “Your barrier is gone.”

Feeling as if the world had stopped spinning, John turned.

It had taken him and his small army two days to construct a temporary gate for the arched entryways and another to fortify them with something more substantial than plywood. Once the barricades were high enough, Harold had installed sensors and alarms as well as floodlights. Now, the barrier that had stayed up for almost three weeks was a heap of wood and metal.

John ripped his helmet off, got out his rifle and pistol and ran for the opening. As he dodged a fallen street lamp, he mentally listed the reasons as to why the barricade had fallen—normal citizens wanting access, the sick who’d somehow organized, maybe even Mini…

So, a lot of reasons, but only one in actuality and when John ran through the breach, he skidded to a halt on the slick pavement.

“Hello, John,” Elias said with a pleasant smile.

Mini had almost twenty men the other day; Elias had twice that. They dotted the courtyard like stumpy black trees. In the space nearer the entrance, eight men stood in a line; Harold, Trask, and Darren were on their knees in front of them. “Elias.” Where the hell was Carter? “I thought you were going to stay in Brooklyn.”

“I told you I’d wait as long as there was no advantage in coming north.” Elias glanced at Krycek and tipped his head. “But the word is we have visitors and I thought it would be rude if I didn’t stop by to say hello. On my way, I came across a lost lamb. From his threats, I found out he’s one of yours.” Elias shook his head. “I was surprised to find that you let your young ones stray so far, John.”

Harold’s mouth twisted but when he spoke, it was to John, “Mrs. Phipps left the building sometime this afternoon. Caleb went after her and Darren went after _him._ I’m sorry. I should have been on alert.”

“It’s not your fault.” Movement from above caught John’s eye. It had started to snow and through the white veil, he saw what he thought might be Elizabeth and Theresa—they’d taken down the blackout cardboard and were watching from behind the curtain. “What do you want?”

Elias grinned. “I want the world to go back to how it was. I want to be able to have a plate of Mario’s delicious cappelletti. But more than that…” Elias’s grin faded, “I want a better exit strategy. I’m told your friend has that very thing.”

John had limited options. He couldn’t count on any of the residents and Carter would have already shown her hand if she was anywhere about. And then there was the fact that Elias had more guns and more men… “And if he doesn’t?”

Elias looked up and scanned the courtyard. “This is a lovely building. I’ve never had the opportunity to see the interior but I’m sure it’s just as lovely. It’s also quite large.” He rocked on his heels. “How many people are in there? Two hundred? Three hundred?”

As soon as Elias had looked up, Elizabeth had pushed Theresa back behind the curtain; John was fairly certain Elias hadn’t seen them but it didn’t matter—Elias knew they were there even if he didn’t know who they were.

“I told Mr. Elias that help is on the way,” Harold said, still speaking to John. “He didn’t believe me.”

“And why would I, Harold?” Elias asked. “John has never been particularly forthright with me which means you haven’t been, either. Imagine my surprise when I find out my chess partner and my savior are more than just employer and employee.” Elias shook his head, faking shocked sorrow.

“Elias…” John warned.

Elias waved a gloved hand. “I’m not judging you, John. I actually think it’s sweet. It’s more than I ever had. It’s also a convenient bargaining chip. If you give me what I want…” He nodded to Krycek. “You’ll get what you want.”

“And if I don’t?”

Elias nodded; his lieutenant, the one John privately thought as ‘Scarface,’ stepped up behind Trask and nudged the barrel of his gun against Trask’s skull. Trask grimaced and closed his eyes.

“I’ll start with this man and then move on to the boy. And then my men will go through the building and kill every living soul. None will be spared, not even the children. When everyone is dead, I’ll drag Harold to the park and leave him there.”

John glanced at Harold and then Darren; Darren’s face was screwed up in an effort not to cry and no, the world hadn’t stopped spinning, it had just slowed down and he saw it all as if he were watching a film in slow motion: the snow as it floated down, Scarface rocking back on one heel in preparation for the recoil, the beat of a muffled clock that was actually John’s own heart: _Thump, thump, thump…_

Harold twisted to look up at Elias. “Elia—”

“Harold, please,” Elias interrupted with another wave of his hand. “I’ve been waiting for days; I’m tired and cold and if John won’t help, he’ll have to pay the price. Or rather, you’ll have to pay it for him.”

…and John could feel it grow, the metronome-perfect pulse that sharpened his mind and resolve, that drowned out fear and worry to turn him into the thing he hated the most…

Harold tried one more time, a soft, pleading, _“Elias.”_

…so he could do the thing he was so very good at, and…

Elias folded his hands together. “Gentlemen?”

_…and…_

Elias’s men raised their weapons and stepped forward.

…in one smooth motion John let the rifle swing loose and yanked Krycek to him. Krycek tensed and drew a sharp breath but John pressed the barrel of the gun against his temple. “Don’t,” he murmured.

And then he grinned, the wide, maniac grin that felt as terrifying as it probably looked. “You were right, Elias—this man has access to a helo and food and weapons. He’s also the only one who knows the code to call it in. If you hurt any of my friends, if you touch one _hair_ on Harold’s head, I will put a bullet in this man’s brain and then I will kill all your men and hang you from the top of that arch.”

_Thump…_

Elias smiled. “John.”

_Thump…_

“You know I will. You know I’ll do it.” Krycek was getting ready to move. John squeezed, adding silently, _‘Not yet. Trust me.’_

_Thump._

Elias’s examined the scene, taking in Krycek and John’s gun. And then he shook his head and said conversationally, “What am I going to do with you?”

Krycek didn’t sigh but he relaxed under John’s hand.

Heartbeat steadying, John nodded to the men back in the shadows. “Tell your men to put their guns away. Tell them to come forward.”

Elias gestured; slowly, his men complied. “What now?”

“Now, you’ll go home and wait for relief.”

“I thought we might stay the night.”

“No. You started this. You’ll take your chances out there.” Movement again caught John’s eye; Fusco and Bennet had entered the courtyard from the lobby and were creeping up, weapons drawn. Somebody trailed behind them—it was Carter. She had her gun raised and a hand to her temple. “All right, since I’m in a good mood, Rudy’s Market is three streets down. It’s abandoned but you can hole up there for the night.”

Elias had seen Fusco, too; his voice was bland when he answered, “Is that the Rudy’s that’s right next to the First National Bank?”

“It is.”

“I’m assuming there are still guards in the bank.”

John smiled. “Oh, they’re in there and they’re trigger-happy; no one goes near that back so you’re not gonna want to mess with them. But they _will_ provide you with the protection you’ll need. At least for the night.”

“How do we make it inside the bodega without being seen by the guards?”

“You’re smart; you’ll figure it out.”

Elias breathed a laugh. “I suppose we will. All right…” He gestured again. “We’ll be off before it gets much colder.”

John pulled Krycek back, clearing a path for a clean shot in case Elias’s men got any ideas.

Elias’s men didn’t get any ideas. They surrounded Elias and then moved towards the entrance; it was only when they got closer did John realize they were gaunt and exhausted. Tapped out, and they probably didn’t have any ammunition in those guns, either. “There’s a cache of food and water in the ceiling of Rudy’s break room.”

Scarface sneered but Elias didn’t acknowledge John’s concession in any way.

“Elias?” Harold called out.

Elias hesitated and then turned around.

Harold struggled to get up.

John pushed Krycek out of the way, then went to help Harold. Harold grunted softly, his movement graceless and heavy—kneeling on the hard brick hadn’t been good for his back.

When Harold was on his feet, he pulled away from John and got out his cell phone. He limped forward. “It’s what I was trying to tell you earlier—I had service for a few minutes today which means whatever is causing the interference is fading. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

After a moment, Elias gave Harold a small nod and then he and his men passed under the arch.

“Fusco,” John said, “take Trask and make sure they don’t double back. We need to re-fortify this place.” He turned. As quiet as ghosts, many of the building’s residents had appeared. Carter was still holding her head. “Are you all right?” he asked her as he put his gun away.

Carter held her hand up; John could see only a little blood but a lump was already forming on her temple. “They surprised me.”

“Go see Dr. Madani in 918.”

Carter shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“Carter, you’re no good to anybody if you have a concussion.” John’s voice was too tight, too low. He was in that post-mayhem state where he either wanted to spend a lot of time in the ring or in a bed.

She hesitated and then nodded stiffly.

John watched her leave, then said to Harold who was shifting impatiently, “Yes, Harold, we’ll go out after Caleb, but _after_ we fix the barricade.”

Darren stepped forward. “I lost him near the park. He thinks his mom went to where her sister works on 54th.” Darren’s face screwed up and he blurted out, “It’s my fault. I should have told Harold about his aunt but I—”

“No.” John reached out for Darren’s shoulder, stopping his apology. “It’s okay. You did what any good sidekick would do. I’m just glad you made it back alive.” Darren’s misery lightened a bit. “Did anyone touch you?”

Darren shook his head. “No, I didn’t go into the park.” He looked over his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mr. Finch.”

Harold nodded.

“I think you’re getting too tall for a sidekick.” John squeezed Darren’s shoulder and then let go. “You’re gonna be a bona fide superhero soon.”

Darren rolled his eyes but smiled all the same.

John turned to Krycek. “About that—”

Krycek shook his head. “No, I get it.” He shot a lightning quick glance towards Harold. “I would have done the same thing if I’d been in your shoes.”

“All right,” John said, pitching his voice to the growing crowd. “We gotta button this place up before the snow gets too deep. Frank and Trask will stand guard while the rest of us get the materials from the lobby. We’ll put up the temporary barricade and then finish up in the morning.” He gave Harold a sideways glance and murmured, “Were you lying about the cell service?”

Harold drew his back up. “I would never.”

John loved it when Harold got that look, when he used that tone; he was smiling when he added, “We have some good news—Harold got a signal on his cell phone today.”

Everyone perked up; they came closer.

“Plus,” John said, “thanks to our guest…” He nodded at Krycek. “We have a cure for whatever’s happening out there which means we just have to hold on a little longer.” The same words he’d used earlier with the same result—smiles broke out and everyone started chattering.

John let them have their moment and then said, “It is good news but we can’t get sloppy. We need to get to work. I’m going to take Harold upstairs and then I’ll be back.”

En masse, the residents went to get the building materials. John and Harold followed at a slower pace.

“I’m not injured, you know,” Harold said. “I’m quite capable of pushing an elevator button.”

“I know,” John replied as he held the door for Harold. “I want to make sure Leila is okay.”

Harold passed in front of John. “She’s fine. Elizabeth is up there. Theresa is, too.”

“I saw them at the window.” John pressed the call button; the elevator doors opened. He stepped inside; so did Harold. The elevator lights chose that moment to flicker and dim. “They took the cardboard down.” He felt jumpy and off—the adrenaline was still running through his system; it was going to be hours before it wore off.

Harold closed the elevator doors. “I’ll put it back up. And I’ll ask Mr. Trask to look at these lights tomorrow.”

“Okay.” John was calculating on how long it would be before he could get to bed when he realized that Harold hadn’t pushed the button for their floor. “Finch?”

“I’ve been through many frightening instances ever since you came into my life, Mr. Reese,” Harold said to the elevator’s control panel. “But tonight, after they knocked Detective Carter out, I actually thought, _‘This is it, this is how I die.’_ ” He turned and looked up at John, just a grey shape in the grey gloom. “After all this time, I should have known you’d save the day.”

John opened his mouth, an inane, _‘You’ve saved my life a few times, Harold,’_ at the ready when Harold pressed him back against the elevator wall and pulled his head down.

_‘Why, Harold…’_ John wanted to say, unable to as his mouth was taken skillfully, as Harold kissed him so hard it actually hurt.

After a moment, Harold’s mouth grew soft and apologetic. He drew back enough to say, “I suppose we should get up there.”

“I suppose we should.”

“Elizabeth is waiting.”

“She is. And so is Theresa and Leila.”

Harold stepped back. “I’ll make something for you to eat. It will have to be something easy, like sandwiches.”

“Sandwiches are good.” John straightened up. He felt better now, less loose, less disoriented. No surprise there—Harold had a way of anchoring him to the present. “I can eat with you and Leila before I go back down.”

Harold tugged on his vest and then shirtsleeves. “Yes. About that…”

***

‘About that…’ had given John pause. ‘About that,’ coming from Harold, could mean a lot of things. In this case, it meant that Harold had retrieved the dog and brought it to their apartment so it—and Elizabeth—could protect Leila and Theresa and the other children that lived in the building.

“I’m only hoping that you were right and it’s not a menace,” Harold said as he walked down the corridor. “When Elias showed up, I only had a few minutes to gather as many children as I could.”

Harold’s limp was still more pronounced than normal. “They’ll be fine. The dog will do what he’s trained to do.” John opened the door for Harold. “It’s you I’m worried ab—” His words trailed off as he took in the scene.

Resting in the middle of the hallway, the dog whined when he saw John. Leila and Joachim Rivera were curled against the dog’s side, both fast asleep. In the living room beyond, the children were gathered round Theresa because she had been reading to them. As soon as John opened the door, she closed the book and scrambled to her feet. Sometime in the last twenty-four hours, Theresa had cut her hair—it was now a shoulder-length bob. She was wearing her old army jacket, a pair of heavy boots and a frown worthy of Carter at her most adamant.

“Thank God,” Harold sighed. “Where’s your aunt?”

Theresa shrugged. “She went downstairs when she saw those men leave.”

John sat his rifle on the hall table. As soon as they’d come into the room, little Stevie Cook had squealed and got up. “Any problems?”

“You’re out of diapers. Again.”

Theresa’s _I’m-mad-at-you-but-I’m-okay_ staccato tone told John everything but he didn’t smile; Theresa would never forgive him if he did.

“There are some in the back closet.” Stevie was just learning to walk and he tottered towards John, listing sideways every few steps. As soon as he was in range, John picked him up. Stevie, for some reason, really liked him. “Thanks for staying—I know you wanted to be down there.”

Theresa’s frown grew deeper.

“Theresa,” Harold said while he unbuttoned his coat. “I need to check on the generator but I should stay up here. Can you ask Mrs. Reid to go with you?”

“I know what to do,” Theresa grumbled.

“Of course you do,” Harold said with a rare smile. “But Mrs. Reid doesn’t; perhaps you can show her the process?”

Like magic, Theresa’s frown faded. “All right.”

“Please make sure the two indicator lights are solid green.”

While Harold and Theresa had been speaking, John had returned Stevie to the cushions on the floor and had gone back to gently disentangle Leila’s fingers from the dog’s fur. He picked her up, then turned to Theresa. “Before you go…” He held out his hand.

Theresa rolled her eyes but withdrew a butcher’s knife, a butter knife, and two forks from the deep pockets of her jacket. She gave the utensils to Harold.

While Harold took them, his eyes wide, John said, “It’s good to be prepared but we’re gonna need them for dinner.”

Leila stirred. She rubbed her eye with her tiny fist and mumbled, “Bear.”

“Bear?” John and Harold said at the same time.

Theresa smiled. “That’s what Leila calls the dog—she thinks it’s a bear.”

John looked at Harold and Harold looked at John. And then they looked down at the dog that was grinning up at them.

“Bear,” Leila said in a louder voice. She reached down, stretching her arm. “Bear!”

John hitched Leila on his hip. “All right. Bear it is.”

***

It was eleven and they were almost done.

Caleb had returned around nine—John gave him a _you fucked up but we’ll talk about it later_ look and a hammer and told him to help Trask.

When the snow picked up shortly after, John sent most of the residents back into the building. Trask, Fusco and Krycek had insisted on staying, saying they’d sleep better if they knew the barricade was secure. Darren, still in the apology stage of regret, had wanted to stay, too. John had pointed to the lobby doors and Darren had trudged off like he was going to prison. Fusco had snorted and muttered, “Wish my kid wanted to work like that,” and went back to hammering.

Crouched by the gate, John was almost done with the alarm when a shadow cut the work lights. It was Harold; he was holding a cup of coffee and an umbrella. By his side was the dog.

“I thought you could use something warm.” Harold raised the cup. “It’s decaf.”

“Give me a moment,” John murmured as he threaded the new wire to the right connector. “Why Trask had to put the box down here…”

“He did it to hide it from view, as you well know,” Harold replied. “It is inconvenient, however. When this is all over, I’ll make a list of suggested modifications and updates. That generator room was a nightmare.”

“I remember… There.” John closed the panel and then got to his feet. He took the cup, letting the heat seep into his cold palms before taking a sip. “Hmm.” He could feel the coffee wind its way down. “Thanks.”

Harold shifted the umbrella to cover John as much as possible. “You are quite welcome.”

“Hey!” Fusco shouted from the other end of the barricade.

John and Harold turned. Fusco was holding the ladder while Bennet secured the last of the razor wire.

“What about us chickens?” Fusco called out.

“I left a thermos and cups on the stone bench over there,” Harold called out. “And sandwiches when you’re done as you missed dinner.”

Wind out of his sails, Fusco grumbled, “We’re done.”

John breathed a smile into his coffee as Fusco grumbled something to Bennet. “You sure showed him.”

“I sure di,” Harold answered dryly. “Everyone’s in bed; I thought Bear could use a walk.”

John glanced down at the dog—it was watching his every move. “I think it will be okay to let him run, Finch.”

Harold nodded and then gave the umbrella to John. He bent over to unhook the leash, murmuring, “Leave Mr. Trask’s spring flowers alone, please.”

Bear whined and wiggled but he was well-trained and waited for John’s command before dashing off.

“I see Mr. Cole returned safely,” Harold said. “Any news of Mr. Webb?”

“Not yet.”

“Is Mr. Krycek is worried?”

“He didn’t say.” Bear was nosing near Trask’s tulips but wisely stayed on the path. “He’s a closed book. Kind of like you.”

Harold snorted but when he spoke, it wasn’t about Krycek or the missing men. “How are we ever going to keep a dog?”

Fusco and Bennet were sitting on the bench, wolfing down the food. Waving a sandwich, Fusco was telling Bennet something about driving through the snow in upstate New York. “We have Leila.”

“A dog is a different story as you well know.”

“A dog can be a lot easier than a kid, Harold.”

“Yes, but in this inst—”

Harold was interrupted, not by a person but by a sound; it took John a second to hear what he was hearing.

“Is that…?” Fusco called out around a mouthful of food.

“A car,” Harold breathed.

John sat the coffee cup on the edge of a planter and hurried through the gate. Trask and Krycek were already at the curb.

Normally, the sound of a single vehicle on the streets of New York would be drowned out by the cacophony of other vehicles and a hell of a lot of people. Tonight, amplified by the buildings and the lack of life and the quiet itself, the low rumble of the van coming towards them sounded like a freight train.

“It’s a BearCat,” John murmured. Used by SWAT and the military for rescue and assault, the van drove over a bicycle like it was rolling over a toy.

“Who are they?” Harold asked.

The windows of the BearCat were small but the van was near enough to recognized the shape of the driver’s helmet. “Those aren’t regular police which means—”

“The cavalry has arrived,” Harold interrupted with a relieved sigh.

The BearCat had come up to the Prius stalled in the middle of the street; it scraped it out of the way.

“It’s the military?” Fusco said eagerly. “We gotta—”

Fusco started towards the BearCat, but John grabbed his arm. “Stay here.”

“Yeah, but—”

“They’re on recon, Lionel—you’ll just make them nervous.”

John felt a warm mass against his shin; Bear had edged between him and Harold. With the same eagerness as Fusco, Bear took one step forward. “ _Blijf,_ ” John murmured. Immediately, Bear sat down.

“We gotta tell them how it is out here,” Fusco insisted. Like Bear, he stepped into the street.

Harold leaned around John. “They already know, Lieutenant. They wouldn’t be driving that vehicle, otherwise.”

“Yeah, but—”

The van paused and the rear door opened; a man got out. It was Webb.

Krycek sighed. “Finally.”

The driver rolled down his window. Webb said something to him; the driver grinned and said something back, then gave the group on the sidewalk a thumb’s up and started up again.

“Who’s your ride?” Krycek said as Webb crossed the street.

“Ask them if they’re here to help!” Fusco added.

Webb ignored Fusco. “They’re Marines and a some guys from the 42nd. Their communication systems came back online yesterday for a couple hours; our people got in contact with their people. They met up with me outside of Eastchester.” He glanced at Krycek. “Everybody’s been trying to get in touch with you which means the satellite is down again.”

Krycek shook his head but only asked, “How did it go?”

Webb shrugged. “The whole thing is way more fucked up than we thought. No one’s able to communicate with anyone else, no one knows who’s in charge. And, their personnel are still dropping like flies.”

“So they’re just sitting on their asses?” Fusco growled.

Webb turned to Fusco. “Hardly. They’ve been securing the city’s perimeter, working from the outside in.”

“Containment, isolation, and inoculation,” Krycek said, as if quoting from a rule book.

Webb nodded; his gaze flickered to the sandwich Fusco was holding. “They have to make sure no more of the infected leave the area. They’re sending a couple planes out tonight to blanket the city with info leaflets in the hopes that it will keep people from freaking out.”

“Like they did in World War II,” Harold murmured. “But I do have to ask: why at night? Wouldn’t that be more dangerous considering they have no communication’s systems?”

“I asked the same thing,” Webb said with a lift of one shoulder. “When things started to go crazy, a lieutenant out of EADS took his personal plane over the city to do a low-fly sweep. Some numb nuts with a rifle lobbed a couple potshots at him. He wasn’t hit, but the guys at EADS decided to wait until they had a better handle on the situation before wasting resources. After that, they were hit really hard with the infection, but…” Webb smiled. “Now that we have a cure, we can let people know.”

“So everything else went as planned?” Krycek asked.

Webb nodded. “For the most part. I ran into some trouble near Norwood.”

“Zombies?” Krycek guessed.

“Bikers,” Webb answered. “They’ve commandeered a couple buildings near Van Cortland Park.” He glanced at Fusco’s sandwich again. “The guys at the Eastchester branch said they’ve been avoiding the area for weeks. You got anymore of those? I’m starving.”

Fusco waved the sandwich. “We sure do. C’mon.”

“Sir?” Webb asked Krycek.

Krycek tipped his chin. “You can write up your report later. Go eat.”

John waited until everyone but Krycek and Harold were out of earshot, then said, “What now?”

“Now,” Krycek said, a frown forming, “I have to figure out a way to get us out of here that doesn’t include getting shot at or kidnapped by rival gangs. There’s no way we can use the park again.”

“Speaking of, how do you feel?” At Krycek’s confused frown, Harold added, “You don’t seem to be getting sick, which means the vaccine _does_ indeed work, yes?”

Krycek touched his neck. “I can’t believe I forgot about that.”

“It’s been a long day,” Harold agreed. “How is your test subject?”

Krycek’s frown melted away. He didn’t smile but it seemed as if he wanted to. “I managed to get through a few hours ago. He’s over the worst of it. The doctors think they’ve figured out the best way to administer the vaccine. Unfortunately, it means turning sick people into healthy people is gonna take a long time.”

“And why is that?”

“Because the doses have to be given very slowly.”

“That could pose a problem.”

Krycek nodded. “It could.”

While Harold and Krycek were talking, John’s attention had been drawn down the street. Now he said, “Harold?”

Harold leaned back to glance up at John. “Yes?”

John nodded. “Look.”

Harold and Krycek both turned to see huddled figures coming up the street.

“Are they sick?” Krycek asked.

“No,” John said. “They’d be attacking if they were.”

“They heard the van,” Harold breathed. “John, will you—”

John touched Harold’s arm. “Yeah, I’ll let them know what’s going on. Krycek? You’re the resident expert—feel like giving your two cents?”

***

Finch was in bed reading when John came into the bedroom and closed the door.

“How did it go?”

John began the task of taking off his body armor. “The usual—they’re hungry and terrified but mostly okay. I gave them those big cans of soup that Trask had stored in the manager’s office.”

Harold lowered the book. “He won’t be happy you did that.”

“He won’t know until this is all over.”

“About that…”

John’s fingers weren’t working right; he couldn’t quite seem to unfasten the vest’s buckles. “What now?”

“I’ve been thinking about the aftermath. The event forced us to turn from our own problems but HR is still out there; so is Root and Agent Snow.” Harold closed his book. “And now there’s everything else—the sick and displaced, the abandoned cars and burgled businesses. I’m sure there are bodies in buildings and homes that have yet to be discovered. It’s going to take months to get back to normal. It’s going to take so much effort.” He ran his hand over the book. “Not to mention it will cost a fortune.”

“Maybe we should start a GoFundMe,” John said facetiously.

Harold looked up, his face the picture of absent-minded thought. “That’s a very good idea, Mr. Reese, though I imagine there will be many such fundraisers in the near future. But, I can shift some money around to make anonymous donations to the hardest hit areas once we discover where those are.” His expression changed and then cleared. He sighed and put the book on the nightstand. “What are you doing?”

John raised one shoulder. “Getting undressed.”

“ _I_ take longer than that. Here, let me…” Harold came over and gently slapped John’s hands out of the way. He unbuckled the buckles and unfastened the velcro. “I imagine you’re exhausted.”

John let his eyes close. There was always something so sensual about letting Harold take over; if he were a cat, he’d purr. “I’m okay.”

Harold removed John’s vest and moved on to his shirt. “What are we going to do about our guests?”

“Krycek’s got it covered.”

“And that means?”

“He got the satphone working and called the soldiers from the 42nd. They’re still in the area. They’re gonna take him and his men north to where the helicopter can land safely. I suggested Yankee Stadium. They didn’t think it was funny.”

“I would suppose not.”

John was swaying very slightly, kind of like a tree in the wind and he pictured being in the middle of a forest, soft bed underfoot, swaying pines all around. “He asked me again how we knew about him.”

“I told you he wouldn’t believe your facile explanation of being there sixteen years ago.”

“You told me. You were right.”

“What did you say this time?”

“I played dumb.”

“And he bought that? I can’t believe he’d be so naive.”

“He’s not. I think he was just fishing to see if he could get a bite.”

“We’ll have to hope he moves onto another pond.” Harold tugged John’s shirt off. “It will be interesting, seeing what my research says. I definitely will be investigating his friends. Here…” With one hand on John’s stomach and the other on John’s waist, Harold pushed him back to the edge of the bed. “Sit.”

John sat. “He’ll expect it. You might not find much.”

“I’m good at finding things people don’t want me to find.”

Harold started to kneel down to take John’s boots off but John remembered the courtyard, remembered Harold down on the hard brick. “I’ve got it.”

Harold hesitated, then sat down next to John. “Detective Carter is fine, by the way. Dr. Madani said it was just a glancing blow.”

“A glancing blow can still cause a concussion, Finch.” One boot. “Where is she?” The other boot; he tossed both over to the chair. For once Harold didn’t saying anything about putting them away.

“By now she’s home.”

Any thoughts of exhaustion fled under John’s surprise. “She’s on the streets?” He started to get up but Harold held him down.

“She’s with Miss Morgan, Detective Fusco, and the ex-detective, Davis. She’ll be fine.”

John scrubbed his face and then hair. “Finch, if she’s with Davis, she’s not fine. That route is dangerous, even during the day. Who knows wha—”

“John,” Harold interrupted with a soft voice and a softer touch. “They’re not walking, they’re driving.”

John shifted to face Harold. He knew that look… “What did you do?”

“It was actually you who gave me the idea with your stockpile of getaway vehicles and fuel.” Making a quick gesture, Harold explained, “While I was trying to get the satellite dish to work, I noticed an abandoned hybrid on 79th. At the time I was concerned only with connecting the satellite, besides which the car was an older Nissan which meant it needed fuel as well as a charged battery to run.”

“And then I show you the barrels of gas and that clever brain of yours started working.”

Harold pushed his glasses up. “It did indeed. When Detective Carter told me this morning…” Harold looked at his watch again. “Or rather, yesterday morning, that she was bound and determined to get back to her son, I devised a plan.”

John took Harold’s hand. “You got the battery, charged it up and stole some of my gas.”

“And asked Lieutenant Fusco to accompany her back so that he could guard Mr. Davis. Miss Morgan asked for a lift.”

John smiled. Hybrids didn’t have much room in the back seat—he bet Lionel complained the whole way. “It’s just as well,” he said. “Carter will be near her precinct if her injury gets worse.”

Harold nodded. “I informed Miss Morgan and asked her to keep an eye on our detective.”

“Good.”

“And now…” Harold stood up. “You go to bed while I check on Leila.”

“I should wash up.”

“You should not. Go to bed, John.”

So ordered, John could only obey. “Will do.” He took off his pants and then crawled under the covers. Cool sheets and a soft mattress acted as a stimulant and his mind began to churn with all the things he still needed to do. He was still thinking when Harold returned and slid into bed. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine. I think you’re right—she’s grown again. Those pajamas are too small.”

“Told you,” John turned on his side. “I asked Krycek about the food supply. Everything’s fine; the radiation affected only humans.”

“Let’s hope that’s true and that it stays that way.”

“Let’s.”

There was a moment of silence and then Harold murmured, “Did you see that Theresa cut her hair?”

“I did.”

“I found her in the bathroom, hacking away at it. I finished it for her.” Harold picked up his book. “I suppose it’s just another phase.”

“Probably.”

“It would help if things would get back to normal. Theresa needs normality as does Darren.” Harold opened the book. “It wouldn’t hurt Caleb, either. A boy that intelligent shouldn’t be so obnoxious.”

Refraining from pointing out that Harold needed the same normality as everyone else, John murmured, “How do you know how smart he is?”

“I found a piece of code that he’s writing long-hand.” Harold glanced at John. “I saw his notes when I went through his things to see if I could find out where he’d got to. The code is startling complex, especially considering his age.”

“Remind you of someone you know?”

Harold snorted and then said, “We need to find his mother and help them both.”

“We will.” John closed his eyes.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“When all this is over, when we get everything back, what will be the first thing you do?”

“Hm…” John never liked counting his chickens but now he thought about it. “I suppose I’ll check on some of our ex-numbers after making sure the library is safe for you and Leila. What will be the first thing _you_ do?”

“The very first thing? I’ll begin combing the city’s cameras to make sure there is no trace of you.”

“I’m assuming you’ve already got the program?”

“I wrote it the week after we were shut down. The worry will be videotape.”

“It’ll be fine, Harold. The Machine will keep us safe. You’ll see.”

“I suppose.” There was a rustled of sheets. “Will it bother you if I read?”

John tucked his hand under the pillow and said, “No.”

***

“John.”

“ _John.”_

Wrenched from a dream about climbing a never-ending staircase, John rolled over.

Harold shook him again. “Wake up.”

John opened his eyes. It was still dark but the street lights shone through the window, making the room too bright. “What is it?” Harold was wearing his robe. “Is it Leila?”

“No.” Harold hurried to the window. “Come look.”

John sat up, then froze as his heart jerked. “Harold, why did you take the cardboard down?”

“You’ll see if you come look.”

John got up and went to the window. His body felt heavy and cumbersome; he hadn’t gotten enough sleep. “What time is it?”

“A little after two.” Harold stepped aside and then, with a hand on John’s arm, drew him closer. “Look.”

John peered down. It had stopped snowing but for some reason, people were out playing in th— “Oh.”

“Indeed. The city’s power came back on about fifteen minutes ago.”

John pressed his temple to the cold pane; the people weren’t playing—they were picking something off the ground. “Did you check your computer?”

“Yes. The internet is intermittent as is my cell phone reception. And I got a reverse 911 call notification advising us to avoid touching the sick.”

“Better late then never.”

“There was also a message that the communications systems were coming back online and that calls should be limited to emergencies. People will ignore that, of course, and tax the system; we’ll hope for the best.”

“What are they doing?” John asked as another person bent down.

“A plane just flew over. It dropped the leaflets.”

“The paper will get wet.”

“And the ink might smear. The timing does seem a bit careless. No doubt they were eager to get the word out.”

“I’ll go get one.”

John made to step back but Harold stopped him with a surprisingly hard grip. “No.” He slipped his arm around John’s waist. “For now, just stay.”

John hesitated. If things were going to be back to normal sooner rather than later, he had a lot of chores to take care of. But Harold was staring down at the growing crowd with a soft smile so John relaxed and let himself be held.

*** ***

John trudged up the stairs. He could hear the soft sibilance that was the morning headlines. Harold was watching the news on his computer because Harold was obsessed with the body count—over twenty-three hundred at this point. For some reason, Harold thought John didn’t like to hear the numbers and always turned off the feed as soon as he showed up.Sure enough, as John reached the last step, the sound disappeared. Bear saw him at the same time; he leaped up and skittered down the hall. John crouched to meet him. “Hey, Bear.”

Bear woofed and whined.

Harold was sitting at the desk. “Hello.”

John scratched Bear’s head. “You’ve been busy.” He hadn’t missed the secondary alarm system as well as the new locks.

“I don’t want Lieutenant Fusco or Detective Carter getting too familiar. The locks are to make sure any further curiosity goes unsated.” Harold scooted his chair back. “How is everything?”

“Better than I’d expected. I found the judge—he and Sam are fine. The hospitals and precincts aren’t one hundred percent but they’ll get there. Elias is back in Brooklyn and Mini is back to wherever he came from. Davis is back in the hands of the FBI; he’s their problem now.” Bear whined and wriggled so John scratched him under his chin. “Grace is back home but I couldn’t find Hersh. Fusco thinks he was sent to Russia to oversee an operation.” He glanced up at Harold. “Was that you?”

“Yes, I thought it would be prudent to have him out of the picture for a few months. It will give us time to prepare for his return.”

“Good idea. Have you heard from Krycek or Bennett?”

“No, but a gentlemen by the name of Lee Bowers contacted me and suggested we meet.”

Bear flopped to his side and rolled to his back. “Lee Bowers. The name sounds familiar.” John scratched Bear’s chest. Bear’s eyes closed in bliss.

“As well it might. Lee Bowers was one of the witnesses to the assassination of JFK. He claimed he saw an individual put a rifle into the trunk of a car and then recanted that testimony two years later.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Lee Bower died in ‘66 which means we have an imposter.” Harold leaned back in his chair. “I believe one of Mr. Krycek’s friends just extended a very cautious hand.”

“It could be Root. Have you answered the email?”

“Not yet.”

“When you do, make sure the meeting is in a public place so I can provide back-up.”

Harold raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure there will be the need, Mr. Reese.”

John gave Bear one last scratch and then pushed to his feet. “The man used a dead guy’s name, Finch. He and his friends managed to scrub a double agent’s name from the internet. I’m gonna be there when you meet him. Or them.”

“Very well.”

John put his gun in the card catalog. “Have you talked to Lily?”

“I just got off the phone with her. Leila said her first sentence today.”

He twisted around. “She did? What was it?”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t know. I was so surprised I forgot to ask. There will be others, I realize, but…” Harold shrugged. “We have a new number.”

“Do you want me to get Leila? She can stay with you while I’m out there.”

“I’ve given the number to Detective Carter.”

“Carter? She’s busy, Finch. The 8th is a mess.”

“I realize that. But I needed a favor and she said yes.” Harold turned the chair to face John. “Aren’t you going to ask why I passed the number to Detective Carter?”

“Harold, why did you pass on the number to Detective Carter?”

Instead of answering, Harold hesitated, then posed another question: “Do you remember when I asked you what you were going to do when our lives returned to normal?”

“I should. It was less than two weeks ago.”

“You said you wanted to get back to work.”

“Which I’ve been doing.” A familiar curl of anxiety warmed John’s chest. “What’s going on, Harold?”

“I’ve been thinking. You’ve been working non-stop for almost six weeks and you’ve gotten very little rest over the course of those six weeks. While the world was decomposing before my eyes, you stayed focused, you stayed strong. I was terrified the entire time. I told you I would have been lost without you and now that the danger has passed, I can see how true that was.” Harold reached out and touched his desk. “Returning to the library, sitting at this desk, I felt a weight I didn’t even know was there fall from my shoulders.” Harold got up. “Because of that, I wanted to give you something, a thank-you present, if you will.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Harold.”

“I knew you would say that; I will, of course, ignore it.” Harold shoved his chair back under the desk. “All my money is safe and sound, which means I can once again give you anything you want, anything that might make you happy. But _things_ aren’t what you need, John.”

“What do I need, Harold?” John asked, remembering with a dull ache that was almost pain, _‘You need a purpose. More specifically, you need a job.’_

“Time, John. You need time to decompress.” Harold waved his hand. “And though time in of itself is one of the few things out of my reach, I can give you the next best thing. Come.”

With Bear following, Harold led John down the hall and around the corner. He paused in the doorway of the room that used to hold the library’s rare collection.

The room was small. Harold sometimes used it as a bedroom. Lined with bookshelves on two sides, a wired mesh gate on the third and tall windows on the fourth, there was a sofa under the windows and a small worktable in the middle. On the table were a pile of blankets and sheets, a pillow and a pitcher of water and a glass. Weak sun streamed through the windows, making the furniture and books gleam.

Harold picked up a sheet. “Mr. Trask and Elizabeth have agreed to take care of Leila for as long as we might need.” He shook out the sheet and draped it over the sofa. “Lieutenant Fusco has agreed to assist Detective Carter with any numbers that come in. I’ll of course supervise, as well as walk and feed Bear.”

Bear whined and wagged his tail.

John didn’t move from the doorway. “And what am going to be doing?”

Harold went back for the pillow and blanket. “You’re going to sleep, John. For as long as you can, as hard as you can.” He put the pillow at the head of the sofa and the blanket at the foot.

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Yes, you are.” Harold poured the water and then put the glass and pitcher on the side table. “I don’t think you realize how tired you are.”

Head cocked, John thought about that. He knew his own body, his own state of being and he didn’t feel especially tired. He felt odd, though. While he’d been out on the streets, there had been a couple times when he had felt as if his feet weren’t touching the ground. He’d chalked it up to the fact that it felt good being once more in the thick of New York’s anonymous crowds. “I know all about sleep deprivation, Finch. I’m not sleep deprived.”

“Yes, I’m sure you do know all about it, Mr. Reese, just as I’m sure you really are.”

He could just walk away. He could leave and get a coffee at the vendor on the corner, and then head uptown to see Leila. “I’m not sleepy and even if I was, I can’t sleep for more than a few hours at a time. Not anymore.” It was true—he was very good at cat naps but not so much with anything longer than three or four hours.

Hands on his hips, Harold shook his heads. “Don’t you think I don’t know that? I’ve been sharing a bed with you for almost a year. I know how much you sleep each night.” Harold came over. He reached up to unbutton John’s wool overcoat.

John leaned back.

Harold pressed his lips together. “John.”

Sighing because who was he kidding—he was never going to run from Harold. “This won’t work, Harold.”

Harold slipped the heavy overcoat off John’s shoulders. “I’d like you to try, though.” He draped the coat over the back of a chair and then held his hands out for John’s jacket.

John shrugged as he shrugged out of the jacket. He’d give Harold this one thing. In an hour or so, when it was clear he wasn’t able to sleep on Harold’s command, he’d get up and go back to work. “You’re not going to lock me in, are you?”

Harold picked up a blanket. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

John sat down on the sofa. “Because I can get out of anything.” He removed his boots and then lay back.

“I’m sure you can, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, as if to a child.

John huffed a laugh. “This is pointless,” because it was. It was also a last salvo, aimed at the implacable barrier that was Harold’s will. He’d meant it as a joke but Harold’s face grew still and he stared down at John for the longest while.

“Maybe, maybe not,” Harold finally said. And then, using the sofa’s arm for support, he knelt so their faces were level. He hesitated again, as if gathering his thoughts and when he spoke next, it was in a rush: “I didn’t know about the Ducatis, John, but I knew about everything else. The midnight forays when you thought I was asleep. You were out there night after night, day after day, setting up contingency plans, ensuring that people in the buildings nearby had food, ensuring that if the worst happened, then at least Leila and I would somehow make it out alive.” Harold reached up and cupped John’s cheek. “You always returned around four or five and then you’d get back up at six or seven to do it all over again. Even now when things are getting back to normal, you haven’t taken a break, so I ask you: aren’t you _tired_? Aren’t you tired of always being the one to see things through, to make sure everyone is safe and well?”

John couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Harold stroked John’s cheek with his thumb. “We’ve been working together for three years now. I know when you’re happy just as I know when you’re sad. I _know_ you, John. Which means I also know you sometimes feel as if you’re more killing machine than human—I’ve heard you say it more than a few times; the most recent was just last month.”

_‘Your friend is nothing more or less than a highly trained murderer.’_ Harold hadn’t been there that night; there was no way he could have heard Donnelly’s accusations and recriminations: _‘He chose that life. He chose to become the monster he is.’_ “And?”

“And, the very fact that you question that, that you _worry_ about that…” Harold bent his lips in a crooked smile. “That’s not the hallmark of a sociopath or a machine, John. It simply means you’re human, nothing more, nothing less. But, like all humans you can tire, so for once will you let it all go and please let _me_ take care of _you?”_

John drew a breath to answer and in that short space between one second and the next, something deep inside gave way. A wash of heat covered his body and he was suddenly bone-deep tired, his muscles lax and heavy, his mind foggy. He nodded, the slight movement making him that much more exhausted.

Harold sighed, and then shook out the blanket and covered John’s legs. He got to his feet. “When you wake up, we’ll eat dinner or breakfast—whichever comes first. Is that acceptable?”

John nodded.

“Good.” Harold turned to the dog. “Bear? Come.” He left the room with the dog following.

John rolled to his side and buried his face in the pillow; it smelled of fabric softener and not the familiar, comforting scent of Harold’s aftershave. He closed his eyes. _‘You sometimes feel as if you’re more killing machine than human…’_

It was true. In the past it had been a common exercise, the almost-ritualistic examination of his splintered soul. Most times, the job du jour had interrupted the process; sometimes the evaluation had reached the inevitable conclusion, the acknowledgement that he was better off alone because who could ever love him if they truly knew him?

And then he’d met a man that seemed to know him better than he knew himself. A man who’d smashed through his defenses and doubts and reminded him what life could be, what love could be.

Which meant he’d been wrong after all. Yes, he was good at killing but he was better at this. Loving Harold and Leila and Carter and hell, even Fusco—he was great at it.

John smiled into the pillow. He so very much wanted to get up and tell Harold about the epiphany but the days and weeks were a weight he couldn’t resist and so he did as Harold asked—he gave in and let himself go—

***

 

Coda

 

Harold got to his feet. His new companion looked up but Harold murmured, “Soon,” and then continued on his solitary way to the room down the long hall.

The day had long turned to night, a sedate progression that he’d tracked by the reflections of the sun and then moon on the grimy windows. Odd. In the weeks prior, the hours had dragged on or fled by. There had been no rhyme or reason to the discrepancy and very little confluence between the two. It had probably been a by-product of stress, his inability to maintain focus with any kind of consistency.

It was, he supposed, nothing new. During the long years while he built the thing that would become his penultimate creation, he had lost whole days, whole _months_. Deep in his artificial world where strings of code were king, he would only surface when his stomach ached or his head grew light. Then, forced by nature, he’d get something to eat from the refrigerator that Nathan always kept stocked and wander over to the windows. He’d eat on the window’s broad ledge, his mind’s eye blind to everything but this problem in the code or that issue on how to build a particular piece of hardware that hadn’t yet been invented. Those were the days before Nathan had insisted on regular breaks because Harold was, as Nathan had put it, _‘…turning into a real computer nerd—will you get some exercise, already?’_

So much had changed since then. So many additions to his life, so many subtractions. The biggest of which was out like a light on the sofa and Harold paused in the doorway to examine the still figure. He was careful not to get too close, not to make any unnecessary noise but all was fine—his presence elicited no reaction.Thirteen hours and then some; it had to be a record. John would be so surprised when he told him.

Satisfied, Harold smiled softly, then turned around and went back the way he’d come.

 

 

_fin_


End file.
